The Second Choice
by nitefang
Summary: Edmund Pevensie: son, brother, friend, traitor. The prospect of more Turkish Delight was not enough to sway the young boy enough to deliver his siblings to the White Witch. So she offered him a position—her prince, her apprentice, and her contingency plan.
1. The Offer

**1  
**_**The Offer**_

* * *

Edmund stared at the woman incredulously. Had she just left the local pub? Or a dark alley with even darker characters? Had she just escaped the local mental institution? What could have possessed her to continue demanding to know what kind of creature he was?

"No, Your Majesty," said Edmund as un-ironically as possible. "I have never had a beard and neither am I a dwarf. I'm a _boy_."

"A boy!" Her eyes were wide with surprise. This must all be a figment of Lucy's imagination, and Edmund had been sucked into the madness with her; there was no way anyone was this utterly misinformed. "Do you mean you are a Son of Adam?"

Edmund continued to stare in disbelief. "My father's name is—"

"I see you are an idiot, whatever else you may be," she interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. Of course. _He_ was the idiot. "Answer me once and for all or I shall lose my patience. Are you _human_?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. I-I don't know what else I _could_ be," he said.

"And how, pray tell, did you come to enter my dominions?"

Edmund blinked, contemplating lying because he'd probably be thrown in whatever dungeon they house the insane if he admitted that he came through a wardrobe. His hesitation was too long.

"Tell me!" she shrieked, the whiteness of her dress and face suddenly clouding over with grey.

"Through the wardrobe!" Edmund blurted out, taken aback by the shocking change in both demeanor and appearance. "The wardrobe, Your Majesty. I came through the wardrobe."

"A _wardrobe_? What do you mean?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

Edmund gulped and shrugged, trying to calm his nerves. "I opened a door and just found myself here, Your Majesty."

The Queen scoffed. "A door… A door from the world of men. I have heard of such things." Her voice dropped as she turned away, staring off into the distance. "This may wreck all my plans, but he is only one and easily dealt with."

Yes. Edmund could almost hear the orderlies calling for the missing patient.

He was roused from reflecting on the woman's sanity when she suddenly rose from her seat, her eyes flaming as she raised the glass baton in her hand slowly. He was sure something very unpleasant was about to happen, but fear and panic rooted him to the spot, all disparaging thoughts fleeing from his mind. Just as swiftly as she'd gotten up, her demeanor shifted.

"My poor child," she cooed. "You look so cold! Come and sit with me here on the sledge, and I will put my mantle 'round you. Then we shall talk."

Despite the combination of disbelief and bewilderment he had for this woman, the dominating force that gripped him was currently fear. Crazy or not, this white-garbed, platinum blond-haired woman was _intimidating_. He had no other choice but to obey. So Edmund stepped onto the sledge and sat at her feet, and she put a fold of her fur mantle around him and tucked it in.

"Perhaps you'd like something hot to drink?" she asked. "Warm the blood?"

"Yes, please, Your Majesty," he answered cautiously.

The Queen pulled out a small copper bottle and held it out over the ground. She poured one drop out onto the white snow, and Edmund saw the drop hang in the air for a single second, a shimmering diamond in the sunlight, before it dropped and hissed against the snow. A steaming jeweled cup materialized when the drop had been. The _real_ dwarf dropped down, gingerly picked it up, and handed it to Edmund with a bow and a fake, painful smile.

Edmund tentatively took a drink and felt the liquid slide down his throat. Sweet, foamy, and creamy, it warmed him all the way down to his numb, frostbitten toes.

"It is dull, Son of Adam, to drink without eating," she said pleasantly. "What would you like to eat?"

Edmund met her cold blue eyes. Perhaps she wasn't an escaped mental patient or even a figment of Lucy's eventual mental breakdown. The product of her magic was in his hands. That itself could explain away her strange questions. The warmth of the drink had melted some of his fear and restored his boldness. "Turkish Delight, please, Your Majesty."

The Queen let another drop fall from her bottle, and a round box tied with a green silk ribbon appeared, housing several pounds of the finest Turkish Delight. Each piece was sweet and light to very center, and Edmund had never tasted anything more delicious, each bite infusing him with warmth and comfort.

While he was gorging himself silly, the Queen kept peppering him with questions. At first, Edmund tried to remember that it was rude to speak with an occupied mouth, but he soon forgot all about propriety with the thought of only shoveling down as much Turkish Delight as he could. The more he ate, the more he wanted to eat, and he couldn't hold his suspicions of the Queen's inquisitive nature for too long. She somehow managed to make him tell her about his siblings, Lucy's previous foray into Narnia with the faun, and that no one except himself and his siblings knew a thing about Narnia. In spite of all that information, she just kept coming back to the fact that there were _four_ of them.

"You are _sure_ there are just four of you?" she asked. "There are _two_ Sons of Adam and _two_ Daughters of Eve—neither more nor less?"

The Turkish Delight kept him too preoccupied to answer with his characteristic sass. "Yes, Your Majesty."

At last, all the Turkish Delight was gone, and Edmund stared at the box intently, willing it to refill itself through sheer power of will.

"Son of Adam, I should so much like to see your brother and sisters," she said, pulling him from his longing reverie. "Will you bring them to see me?"

"I'll try," mumbled Edmund, still entirely too preoccupied with the empty box.

"Because if you _did_ come again—bringing them with you, of course—I'd be able to give you more Turkish Delight. I can't do it now, for the magic will only work once. It would be another matter in my house."

"Why can't we go there now?" asked Edmund hopefully, finally tearing his gaze away from the container in his hands.

"It is a lovely place, my house," she mused. "I'm sure you would like it. There are whole _rooms_ full of Turkish Delight—kitchens that will work for days on end to make more. What's more, I have no children of my own. I want a nice boy to bring up as a prince and who would be king of Narnia when I am gone. While he was a prince, he would wear a golden crown and eat Turkish Delight all day long." She turned to him with a wry smile. "And you are very much the cleverest and most handsome young man I've ever met. I think I would like to make you prince someday…when you bring the others to visit me."

The sugar-induced haze of the sweets was heavy, but a few keywords managed to seep through the cracks of the trance of his hunger. Blinking and collecting his thoughts, Edmund frowned and looked up at the Queen suspiciously.

"A _prince_?"

"Of course—I have neither husband nor heir. And a boy from a good, strong family such as yours would be ideal."

Edmund could almost feel his stomach rumbling in spite of the fact that he felt full. However, the burning need for more Turkish Delight was beginning to fade the longer he dwelled on the prospect of becoming a prince. "You…can do magic. Would I be able to learn too?

The Queen's eyes narrowed. "Of course. My heir should know the art and beauty of magic. I shall make you my apprentice and teach you all I know of the arts. And _more_…"

Edmund's fascination with Turkish Delight ebbed as the slow smile spread across his face. "Consider my brother and sisters brought, Your Majesty," he said as he stood.

She suddenly grabbed onto his wrist and turned to point to two hills rising just above the tops of the trees. "You see those hills? My house lies in the valley just between them. Next time you come, you have only to find the lamp-post and look for those two hills and walk through the wood 'til you reach my house. But remember—you must bring the others with you. I might have to be very angry with you if you came alone."

Edmund resisted the urge to scowl as he stepped off the sledge. Her fixation on his siblings was irritating and actually quite off-putting.

"What is your name, young human?" she asked.

"Edmund, Your Majesty."

"_Prince _Edmund of Narnia, I bid you farewell," she announced. "And by the way, you needn't tell them about me. It would be fun to keep it secret between the two of us, won't it? Like a…surprise. Just bring them along to the two hills. A clever boy like yourself will easily think of some excuse for doing that. And when you come to my house, you could say, 'Let's see who lives here' or something to that effect. I'm sure it'd be best. If your sister has indeed met a faun, she may have heard malicious, cruel stories about me. Fauns will say just anything to hold the attention of an audience, you know—notorious for embellishment and lies. And now, 'til next time. Come soon."

She signaled for the dwarf to drive off, and Edmund watched as the sledge faded in between the dense woods. He was still staring when he heard someone call his name. He turned just as Lucy nearly collided with him.

"Edmund!" cried Lucy, eyes bright and grin wide. "You got in too! Isn't it wonderful?"

He smirked. Wonderful indeed.


	2. The Trap

**2  
**_**The Trap**_

* * *

"Ouch, Peter, you're stepping on my foot!" cried Susan, shuffling between the fur coats and getting a mouthful of fabric for her trouble.

Peter coughed at the stench of mothballs and old wood, nearly shoving Lucy up against the side when he was suddenly smacked in the face with a fluffy sleeve.

"Watch out!" cried Lucy, grabbing Edmund's arm to keep from falling.

Edmund held onto her before he tripped over Susan's foot and fell out from between the coats, landing on a patch of snow and Lucy landing on his lap. Peter and Susan stumbled out, the frustration at the ordeal quickly morphing into awe as they took in the lightly falling snow and pine needles brushing their faces and catching in their hair.

Welcome to Narnia.

"Wait," said Edmund, helping Lucy up and grabbing a coat. "May as well use these."

As they fumbled with the coats, Edmund distinctly heard his brother mutter, "Smartest thing he's ever said."

Edmund glared at the back of his brother's head, wishing he already had magic so he could set that poncy blond hair on fire. Or at least rub snow in his face.

"Come on!" cried Lucy, rousing Edmund from his less-than-brotherly fantasies. "Let's go meet Mr. Tumnus!"

"W-Wait!" Edmund blurted out, grabbing Lucy's hand. "Let's go meet _my_ friend first. It's, erm, a long way to her house, so we'll just meet Mr. Thomas on our way back."

"It's _Tumnus_, Edmund," said Lucy good-naturedly, not minding the detour in the least. The youngest Pevensie was happy enough that everyone _had_ to believe her now. She loped her arm around Edmund's. "Lead the way then."

"Who is this friend, Edmund?" asked Susan warily, shrugging on a coat as they began trudging toward the two hills.

"She's a giant." Technically, Edmund hadn't been lying. She was just a…_short_ giant that came from a particularly _midget_ species of giant. He was grasping, but he knew better. His siblings weren't too big on technicalities, and that suited him just fine.

Peter froze in his tracks. "Please don't tell me she's of the bloodthirsty sort."

"She's not," said Edmund. "She's hiding from some evil blokes, so she's good. I spoke to her, and she was eager to meet us all. She's, erm, just lonely living up there."

"Where does she live?" asked Lucy.

Edmund pointed between the two hills. "Right over there. She told me all about her house too. It's this magnificent place—warm and comfortable." He was lying through his teeth, but he was so cold that he wasn't just trying to fool his siblings anymore. Warm and comfortable was a welcome prospect that kept him going.

They walked on in relative silence, Edmund and Lucy in the lead. The entire time, Edmund couldn't stop thinking about what he would do when they finally got to the house. He wasn't afraid that she was going to hurt them. Crazy people liked having company, didn't they? And she must've come from a small family with generations that didn't have many siblings. She was only shocked to have seen so many brothers and sisters in a human family—that made sense, didn't it?

The more he thought about it, the more he sympathized with her (or convinced himself he was sympathetic to her) and felt less and less guilty that he was sending his brother and sisters to see an escaped mental patient. Whenever he _did_ manage to stray onto that thought, he remembered his reward: magic.

And that cheered him up a great deal—enough to help him ignore the numbingly cold slush, the sharp winds, and Peter's suspicious scowls. He thought of all the magic he could be able to do—conjuring food from thin air, changing annoying people into toads or lizards, and maybe even flying. And if anything bad should happen involving the Queen of Mental Patients, he would have the magic to fix the problem anyway.

Lucy continued chattering to Susan and Peter while Edmund let his imagination run wild until there, on the other side of the river, sat the Queen's house, which turned out to be a small castle. It seemed to be mostly made up of towers—ones with long, pointed spires, sharp as needles, glimmering in the setting sun as their shadows cast imposing forms on the snow.

"That," Peter pointed out dryly, "looks neither warm nor inviting."

But it was too late to think of turning back now.

"Is this…_it_, Ed?" asked Susan, grimacing slightly.

"Yes," answered Edmund. "It is."

"Well, I reckon we should move along before it gets dark," said Peter.

They skidded across the frozen rapids and walked right up to the castle. Nothing stirred, not the slightest noise anywhere. Even their feet made no noise in the deep, newly-fallen snow. They walked on and on, past corner after corner of the castle, and past turret after turret to find the door. When they finally found it, they balked at the huge arch with the wide, open iron gates.

They were about to step through when they were stopped by a low grumble that vibrated through the snow.

Susan closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she reached for Peter's arm. "Someone tell me that was thunder."

The low rumbling began to form words that skittered across the flagstone, out from the shadows not far from where they stood. "I am not thunder."

Lucy and Susan immediately scrambled behind the two boys

Eyes wide and throat dry, Peter spoke up. "Who are you?"

A wolf the size of a bear slithered out from the shadows with fur that would've had him easily blending into a storm cloud. His muzzle looked big enough to swallow Peter's head and shoulders with ease.

"I am Maugrim, Chief of the Queen's Secret Police," he announced as three other enormous wolves stalked up toward the children, flanking their leader from the left, right, and back. "I am here to escort you to Her Majesty. Follow me."

"Oh,_ no_," breathed Lucy, panic soaking into her face. "Edmund, I thought we were meeting your giant friend."

"I suspect there was no giant, Lucy," said Peter, not even bothering to conceal the fury in his voice. He slowly turned to face Edmund, giving the younger boy a look of pure loathing. "You led us here, didn't you? You _lied_ to us!"

Edmund swallowed, glancing back from Susan to Lucy and then back to Peter. His reassurances that the White Lady wouldn't harm them were beginning to crumble even in his own mind, and he couldn't bring himself to voice them to the others. He lamely wondered why she would request such terrifying escorts.

"You did, didn't you?!" barked Peter, snapping Edmund out of his thoughts.

Peter was going to throttle him. He could see it all playing out in his mind: Peter's hands closing around his throat as his face began to turn blue.

"Why did you do this, Edmund?!" cried Susan as one of the wolves nudged her forward with its muzzle.

Because he was curious. Because he wanted magic. Because a little boy still wanted to wanted to play by the cliff even if there'd already been stories of people falling off it before. Because apparently Edmund Pevensie was quite an idiot. He'd wanted to be a prince, he'd wanted to learn magic, and the White Lady hadn't seemed like she'd wanted to kill them. She was just…_curious_.

His blood chilled. His aspirations, desires, fantasies, and ambitions seemed so inferior to the regrets he was feeling at this point.

"Get a move on!" snarled Maugrim, turning his head to glare at them with one amber eye.

As the children scurried forward, Edmund couldn't help thinking: _What have I done?_

They finally found themselves in a courtyard full of statues—incredibly _life-like_ statues. Lions, dwarves, satyrs, bears, foxes, mountain cats, and stone shapes of what looked to be nymphs, centaurs, a winged horse, and even a dragon. There were _dozens_ of them, just standing there, cold and unmoving. They passed through in a dead silence until they finally reached the entrance of a long, gloomy hall where one lone statue stood in stony sadness.

Lucy gasped, on the verge of tears. "Mr. Tumnus…"

Susan quickly reached out and pulled Lucy to her side, turning the younger girl's face away as their little group proceeded down the hall. Dim flames dancing on the wall brackets were the only lights in the chilly castle, framing the dark portrait of the Queen resting on her icy throne.

"Ah! Welcome to my castle, Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve," exclaimed the Queen as the children drew nearer. She scanned the faces of the other three before resting on Edmund. "And now…here is the heir to the throne of Narnia. All hail Prince Edmund."

The four wolves bowed low as the three human heads snapped to one.

"_Edmund_," growled Peter.

"Now, now, young Son of Adam," interrupted the Queen. "Your brother meant no harm—at least not intentionally." Then she grinned and laughed, cold and humorless. "Take them to the dungeons! Leave the traitor!"

The wolves shoved Peter, Susan, and Lucy somewhere beyond the pillars.

Panicked, Edmund lunged toward them, attempting to follow. "What are you going to do to them?"

"Useless fool!" spat the Queen. "Your brother and sisters shall be killed!"

Everything in Edmund froze—not by any of the Queen's magic but of more natural, mental means. The cold white face and the dead blue eyes alive with malice chilled him down to his bones.

"At sunrise, you shall be an only child—that is, of course, if I intend to let you live at all." And then her demeanor shifted, softening her features so she looked almost…_pleasant_. "But then again, I do need a contingency plan, an _heir_. You would prove useful after all, as you belong to me anyway."

She lifted the hand holding her wand and pointed it straight at Edmund's heart. A long streak of light, thin as a strand of hair, shot out from the tip. It struck Edmund right on the heart, shocking him from the ends of the hairs on his head to the tips of his toes. It felt as if thought he'd just been slapped with a slab of ice and dunked in a tub of freezing cold water. He shivered and shuddered, collapsing onto the cold floor in front of the witch. A cry of pain finally ripped out of his chilled lungs, but it was drowned out by the Witch's cackle of laughter. Two seconds later, darkness claimed him.


	3. The Threat

**3  
**_**The Threat**_

* * *

After what felt like _days_, Edmund pulled himself up into a seated position on the cold floor, his head swimming. Waves of nausea blasted him as he struggled to push himself up, but he somehow managed to keep from retching where he sat. Keeping his hand over his mouth and stomach, he staggered up to his feet, but as soon as he was completely upright, he dashed behind a pillar and heaved the Turkish Delight. It felt like it had been days since he'd had those treats with the Queen, but in actuality, it had probably been less than three hours.

Once his stomach was thoroughly twisted and turned about, he caught sight of himself. He nearly choked on his own saliva as he studied his very _pale_, very _cold_ skin as well as the cream-colored tunic, black pants, and boots that made him look like he'd stumbled out of one of Susan's pirate books.

_When did this happen?_ he mused absently, fingering the soft silk of the shirt.

He suddenly winced at a sharp, abrasive pain around his upper arm, and he pushed his sleeve all the way up to see a black band etched around his right bicep. His hissed in pain as if metal had rubbed the painted skin raw. Like…a shackle, thick as three of his fingers and as black as the empty night skies.

The back of his neck tingled, and he spun around to see the big gray wolf staring at him as he lounged beside the Witch's throne.

Edmund glared at him and pushed his sleeve back down. "Where is my family?"

"Follow me," said Maugrim, standing up. Then he paused and added reluctantly, "Your Majesty."

Edmund's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Apparently the Witch had been deathly serious. He followed the wolf down the hall to a tall archway with descending stairs. They followed two flights of stone steps before finally arriving at the dungeons—one circular room with six archways, all leading to a different branch of cells. Maugrim led him through the hallway right across the dungeon entrance and stopped in front of a dark cell.

Edmund moved forward and peered through the darkness to see three furry lumps huddled in the corner. He gripped the bars and poked his head through them.

"Peter! Susan! Lucy!" he called hoarsely.

Lucy's small head slowly popped out of the tangle of coats. "Edmund?" she croaked, her breath coming out in small, white puffs.

"Lu, it's me," he said, painfully noticing that the cold of the castle had ceased to bother him.

She stood up and teetered over, and he instinctively reached out to steady her with his hands on her shoulders.

"Lu—Lucy, I'm so sorry," he said earnestly. "I'm sorry for all this. I didn't… I thought she just wanted to meet you…"

"What's going to happen, Ed?" she asked when he trailed off uselessly.

He hesitated before answering. "The Witch is going to kill you three at sunrise, but I won't let that happen. I promise."

"Why?" whispered Lucy, her bottom lip quivering. "We haven't done a thing to her."

The wolf heaved a huge yawn from behind Edmund, startling the pair. "I suppose stupidity and ignorance runs in the blood of your family. Have you not heard the prophecy?"

Edmund glared at Maugrim. "What are you talking about? What prophecy?"

Maugrim bared his teeth in what should've been a smug grin, but it only served to make him look like he was snarling. _"When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone/Sits at Cair Paravel in throne/The evil time will be over and done."_

"What?" asked Lucy, brows furrowed.

"What does that even mean?" pushed Edmund.

"It means that the arrival of humans will signal the end of the Queen's reign," answered Maugrim. "Why do you think she wants to kill you?"

"So we _can _defeat her?" Lucy brightened, hope burning in her eyes.

Maugrim laughed, turning away. "No, girl, you cannot. No one can."

The back-left side of Edmund's head tingled in suspicion. His eyes narrowed and he let go of Lucy to approach the wolf. "You're lying."

The wolf lifted his head up in defiance. "And how would _you_ know? All you've got is the magic of a _curse_ in your bones, boy. Nothing more." The wolf grinned menacingly again. "Just like how your siblings will be no more in just a few more hours."

Edmund's temper flared, and Maugrim suddenly stiffened, eyes wide. The grin dripped off his muzzle as he stared up at younger Pevensie boy. "Tell me the truth." He could see the wolf was trying his best to struggle, but he didn't move an _inch_.

The wolf only growled in response.

Edmund stepped closer, eyes narrowing even more as his head continued to buzz. The wolf sank lower to the ground, almost being forced into a bow as Edmund came closer.

"_Wrong will be right," _Maugrim gritted out, _"when Aslan comes in sight/At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more/When he bares his teeth, winters meets its death/And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring/Again."_

"Roar?" echoed Edmund. "Mane? He's a lion?"

"Yes," replied Maugrim, his voice dropping down to a horrified whisper as if the subject itself would surely bring the Queen down to the dungeons to kill them all. "If that _lion_ comes and two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve sit on those four thrones at Cair Paravel, it well be the end of not only the Queen's reign, but of her life."

"But I don't understand," said Lucy. "Isn't the Witch herself human?"

"Not even a drop of human blood runs in her cold veins," answered Maugrim disdainfully.

Edmund had heard enough. Regardless of their alleged destinies to free Narnia from the White Witch, he had to get his family out of this prison.

"We're getting you out of here," said Edmund, fumbling with the cell lock.

A low growl sounded from behind him.

"You release those prisoners, boy," rumbled Maugrim threateningly, "and not only will Her Majesty rip your skin off your muscles, she will freeze you from the inside out in a slow, excruciatingly painful death."

The buzzing in Edmund's head reached a peak, and unfamiliar words hissed out of his mouth in a long stream of a lilting song. The wolf heaved another enormous yawn before he settled down on all fours and fell fast asleep.

"What did you do?" gasped Lucy, eyes wide with shock.

"The Witch—she apprenticed me and made me a prince, so I suppose I can do magic now," murmured Edmund, shocked at himself as well. "I must've put him to sleep. Go wake up Peter and Susan."

Lucy nodded and silently dashed to the other two. She nudged them awake, and putting a finger to her lips, motioned for them to get up and move toward the cell door.

Peter hobbled forward, still furious. "What are you—"

Susan slapped her hand across his mouth.

Edmund ignored his brother's hostility and zeroed in on the lock on the cell door. Frost crept around the lock, and Edmund wrapped his hands around the bars and wrenched it open. The lock shattered, the broken shards skittering across the icy floor. The door sprang open, and the other three scrambled out.

Lucy hugged Edmund tight, and he kissed the top of her head while Susan hugged them both.

"Go now before the wolf wakes up!" hissed Edmund.

Peter, Susan, and Lucy rushed past him toward the dungeon entrance. Peter was the last to leave, but he suddenly stopped and turned back.

"You're coming with us, aren't you?" he asked, grabbing Edmund's arm.

Edmund opened his mouth…and then closed it. He shook his head. "I—I don't think I can."

"What—Edmund—"

"Look at me! She… She did _something_ to me, Peter. I can't—look at this." He pulled up his sleeve, showing his brother the black band on his arm. "It's fairly obvious she'll kill me if I leave. You go. I'll…do my best to distract her or keep her from following—like—_stop_! Don't give me that look!" Edmund shoved Peter backward, and the older Pevensie stumbled back in surprise.

"What—"

"I-I-I made a mistake, I know, all right, but I didn't know this would happen! I didn't know she'd lock you up and try to kill you," hissed Edmund, more panicked than angry. "You have to believe me—I didn't _know_! I-I'm sorry!"

Peter frowned at him before glancing back over his shoulder to where Susan and Lucy waited at the bottom of the stairs.

"I didn't know," Edmund muttered one more time.

Peter swallowed. "We.. We'll come back for you."

Edmund exhaled and nodded. "Now go."

Exchanging another meaningful look, Peter darted after their sisters and headed up the winding stairs. Fear like an icy claw clasped around Edmund's throat, and another instinctive spell like a whispered prayer slipped from his lips. His siblings shimmered into invisibility. He didn't know how long it would hold but hopefully it would last until they were far off the Witch's land.

And as the echoes of their footsteps faded, Edmund's vision blurred and blackened.

* * *

For the second time that day, Edmund woke up wanting nothing more than to vomit. He pushed himself up into a seated position, leaned against the cold metal bars of the dungeon, and blearily blinked up the White Witch. She was pointing her wand at a statue of a wolf that looked very much like the Chief of Her Majesty's Secret Police. Slowly, she turned to look at him, fury carved on her cold, pale face.

"That will be the first and last time you betray me, Edmund," she said softly, lowering her wand and floating over to him, her full skirt and sewn beads crackling across the stone floor and sounding like frost.

He stared at her, somewhat torn between fear and anger. "You were going to kill my family."

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly, but her voice was still smooth and calm. "You said it yourself. There's nothing special about them."

"That doesn't mean I want them dead!"

"Then you're a fool!" she thundered, shadows looming around her again, swathing the dungeon in an even more freezing cloud. "I have half a mind to keep you down here until your bones age into dust."

"Well, I suppose I'm here now," said Edmund, leveling a rude stare that would've garnered a well-earned slap from his mother and father.

"Oh, my dear prince," cooed the Witch, gracefully crouching down to his eye-level. "That would be a waste of resources."

When he only glared at her in reply, she smiled and caressed his cheek with icy fingers.

"I can not only train you to become a powerful sorcerer, but also a formidable warrior—two traits that can only go hand-in-hand. Under my tutelage, you can be more powerful than I, and Narnia will be yours. No rebellions. Everyone and everything will bow to your majesty," she said, her promises sounding like threats. "And the most wonderful thing is that you have no choice but to comply." Her fingers traced down his neck, across his shoulder, and down to his arm. "That black band is _my mark_. You are mine. I can force you to be whatever I want you to be, learn whatever I want you to learn, and do whatever I want you to do. So if I think your family should die, they will die by _your_ hand. And you will never be able to fight me."

She snatched his arm and hauled him up to his feet in one swift move, her skirts enveloping his lower legs as she wrenched him close, her chilling breath biting his ear.

"Fighting me is futile and will only lead to worse things."


	4. The Girl

**4  
**_**The Girl**_

* * *

"Focus, boy!" shrieked the Witch, throwing her arms up in frustration.

Fifteen year old Edmund crossed his arms over his chest as "his Queen" railed at "her prince's" lack of skill. In actuality, Edmund had already taught himself that particular spell a few months ago—casting a glamour on some unsuspecting passerby (who serendipitously happened to be Dardandook colleting papers and manuscripts from a nearby table)—but he simply refused to give the Witch the satisfaction that she'd taught him anything. Honestly, she _hadn't_—not since she'd first shown him her personal library that housed all her spell books, grimoires, and manuscripts. Every spell, incantation, or potion he knew, he'd learned on his own. That was the only thing he learned from her: the location of her books.

That dreary snowy day was another day of "lessons" where he'd feign ineptitude and amused himself with the sight of the Witch ripping her hair out at his incompetence.

"Your Majesty!"

"What?!" She whirled around, pinning the big, white wolf with the glare previously directly at Edmund. The wolf flinched and cowered back from the sudden blast of her ire.

Though still terrified, the wolf managed to rally himself. "You have a…volunteer?"

The Witch narrowed her eyes, hands on her hips as she hunched forward, closer to the animal. "What was that again?"

"A, uh, _girl_ showed up, asking to join the army," replied the wolf. "Naturally, we thought she'd be a Narnian spy, but she's demanding to see you."

The Witch's anger seemed to simmer back down to irritation. "On what _grounds_?"

"She says—" He glanced cautiously at Edmund before turning back to the Witch. "She says if any random human who walks into the country can become your heir, your standards for your army must be just as lax."

And the anger boiled back to the surface.

"And you thought that'd be a viable reason to report this to me?!" she screeched, the floor icing over in a new layer of frost. "I know you all have killed for much less."

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty, but—"

"But _what_?!"

"He would've told you if you didn't interrupt," drawled Edmund, rubbing a particularly recalcitrant spot on his sword.

He didn't even spare a glance at the glare the Witch shot him before she rounded on the wolf once more.

"W-We attacked her, but she's put up a fight," continued the wolf. He glanced over his shoulder, teeth bared in a grimace. "And it's causing problems. We were hoping…you or the Prince Sorcerer could come down and…encase her in a block of ice or something so she can be interrogated properly."

The Witch sneered, glancing at Edmund. "The Prince _Sorcerer_ is of no use to anyone—this impotent buffoon. Take me to the girl."

The wolf frowned in confusion, shooting Edmund a look. It'd been an understandable reaction considering he'd walked into the study just the night before as the young man was putting away various spell books by means of levitation. And the night before that, when the Witch was away, he'd seen Edmund conjuring ice sculptures of the Witch and then smashing the heads off with a club. But the wolf was smart enough to realize that pointing out the Prince's capabilities was most likely to result in him being turned to stone or worse, so he simply led the Witch back out to the courtyard, Edmund following close behind.

The harsh ring of metal on metal rebounded through the air when they reached the courtyard and saw a ring of the Witch's cronies surrounding a young girl Edmund's age. The screams of the wraith the girl had just impaled on a spear hit a crescendo before dramatically tapering off as the other monsters took note of the Witch's arrival. The girl calmly released the spear, the wraith and weapon falling to the side. She flipped her shoulder-length black hair over her shoulder as she lazily turned around, flicking blood off her hands—blood that did not belong to her.

"Good afternoon, Your Royal _Frozenness_," she said, curtsying low in a flourish slightly marred by her bloodied appearance.

"Is that how you speak to your host?" countered the Witch. "With disdain and insolence?"

The girl lifted her face, displaying black eyes and a crooked grin that made Edmund's frown furrow deeper into his forehead. The way her gaze stabbed him in the forehead had him wary of this girl immediately—even more than the circumstances of her arrival and her bloody state.

"I give back the same amount of respect I receive, Your Highness," she said. "Imagine my surprise to be treated like an enemy when all I wished was to join your cause."

Sneering, the Witch descended the stairs down to the main circle, her long skirts sweeping around her and emanating a frost that had a few of men of the army skittering backward. "_Join_ my army? After deeming it so _lax_?"

"Obviously, I'd have to be aware of the weaknesses, else I make a choice that would lead to my own death," she said, folding her arms over her chest and meeting the Witch's stare head-on. "How else am I supposed to help?"

Eyes scanning the girl up and down as she made her way through her army, the Witch carried herself in such a way that made Edmund think this was entirely posturing—the kind of posturing that connoted, at the very least, a modicum of intimidation. The girl wore neither a dress nor a blouse, but rather a boy's tunic, breeches, and boots that clung to her slim frame. A small dagger was sheathed at her left hip and another, smaller hit poked out from her right boot. She stood in stark, dark contrast to the Witch's deathly paleness.

"And who asked for your help?" asked the Witch, her sneer growing colder as she stepped up to the girl. "Because I certainly do not recall requesting your services."

"Who are you?" asked Edmund, still standing at the top of the courtyard steps.

"Velia," came the answer. She broke her stare with the Witch to smile at Edmund. "You can call me Velia."

"And you…are here to join _my_ army?" asked the Witch. "To _help_ make up for its weaknesses?"

Velia flashed both Edmund and the Witch a dangerous smile. "_Naturally_."

Edmund expected the Witch to say something derogatory. Perhaps "you're barely out of the nursery, darling" or "I already have one brat to deal with." Instead, her sidelong glance of the girl moved to peruse the bloody mess she'd caused when the army had tried to subdue her, an appreciative smile blooming on her purple lips. Edmund's frown turned into a grimace as he too looked over the remains of the fierce battle that must have taken place before they'd arrived. At least fifty corpses littered the courtyard, blood and viscera filling the space between cobblestones.

"You may be of use to me," said the Witch, "but you must prove your allegiances. As you're well aware, I need to be sure you're not just a Narnian spy come to infiltrate my forces. You killed my demons; that doesn't mean you can turn around and kill those red and gold pincushions."

Velia nodded in understanding. "What is it that you want? The heads of a few hundred Narnians?"

"No, no, that's too easy," muttered the Witch, chuckling softly. She turned back to look at Edmund, and he returned it with a cold sneer. "I want you to bring me a finger—a finger from the hand of Lucy Pevensie."

The girl couldn't have been a day older than Edmund, but the look that crossed her face chilled him to the bone. She looked…_completely _ indifferent—as if she'd been sent out on a milk run instead of a mission to retrieve his sister's finger.

His _sister's finger_.

It was as if the Witch's command hadn't quite sunk in until then.

"What?!" he snapped, glaring at the psychotic females standing in front of him. "You can't do that!"

Velia cocked an eyebrow, and the Witch scoffed and ignored him.

"You must be the Prince Sorcerer," said Velia. "Lucy Pevensie's traitorous older brother, I assume?"

Edmund glared at her, stepping down so they were less than a foot apart. "Yes. And you _will not_ harm her."

Velia's lips curled, and she chuckled. "I don't think it's your place to undermine your Queen's demands, Your Grace."

"And who do you think you are?" growled Edmund. "Don't talk down to me as if you're decades older."

Velia bowed her head slightly, acknowledging her disrespect. "My apologies, but the mission has been ordered. You are not of any position to counter those orders, and so in a few moments, I will be taking my leave to carry them out." She backed away and was at the bottom of the stairs when she called over her shoulder, "Besides, you should be glad your Queen only asked for a finger, not the head."


	5. The Lie

**5  
**_**The Lie**_

* * *

Night had fallen on the second day since Velia had come for a position in the Witch's army, and the moon was high in the sky by the time one of the bigger black wolves darted into the study. Edmund was cleaning a sword while the Witch was bent over a map.

"Your Majesties," panted the wolf.

The Witch didn't even look up. "What?"

"The girl—Velia—has returned," he reported. "One of the guards spotted her from the east tower. She'll be in the courtyard any second. She's badly hurt."

The Witch was silent for a few seconds. Then she straightened and turned to Edmund, smiling benevolently. "Go practice your healing spells on our new ally, Edmund darling, and then bring me your sister's finger once you're finished."

Edmund simply paused his work and glared at her. When he prolonged his disobedience, an invisible force ripped him from his seat, his sword clattering to the ground. It marched him up to the Witch. That same unholy force that had controlled Edmund for the last five years—compelled him to do the things he least wanted to do—had become the bane of his existence, and unfortunately, the Witch knew it. It was what stopped him from tackling Velia and ripping off her limbs before she could cut off one of Lucy's. It was what kept him from cutting off the Witch's head while she slept. It was what kept him from ever escaping the castle.

"Go now, my dear, before you truly test my patience," she said, patting his cheek gently. She waved him off, and the unseen puppet master propelled Edmund after the wolf as the animal led him out to the courtyard.

He reached the bottom of the steps right when two giants swung open the gates to let in the girl. She staggered through, clutching her bloody left shoulder and limping from the gash in her right thigh that dripped down her leg, leaving bloody footprints in her wake. Cuts and scratches ravaged her arms, bruises colored every inch of her visible skin, her right eye was swollen and blackened, her bottom lip was torn, blood trickled out the corner of her mouth, and her hair was matted with blood and sweat.

Her eyes, though…

Her eyes were black fire as she reached behind her and pulled out a dripping, wadded-up rag and held it out to Edmund.

Somehow managing to stifle his nausea, Edmund froze. His heart stuttered, and his breathing hitched. He could almost feel the ice crackling and forming in his veins. Pure, unadulterated fury scorched his mind—a cold so sharp it burned. He could see it all playing in front of his eyes as if he'd stood in the room when it happened: Velia leaping over centaurs, slashing their chests as she barreled into the throne room of Cair Paravel. She deflected Susan's arrows, disarmed Peter, and finally pinned Lucy's hand down on a table before lifting a knife and slicing it through the small, slender appendage.

He could see his family's faces—or what he imagined their faces looked like since he hadn't seen them in half a decade. Peter, furious with bloodlust in his eyes but so afraid at the same time. Susan, horrified and screaming in horror. And Lucy…

His face contorted as tears blurred his vision. He glared back at Velia, and she stared back at him, her expression unreadable.

Had she been in a better state, she might have been able to duck or throw some sort of counterattack, but she was vulnerable and weak. She didn't even react when she saw Edmund pull his arm back.

He punched her in the face. No spells, curses, hexes, or jinxes—just one raw punch that shattered her jaw. She rolled onto her back on the stone floor, gasping for breath and trying not to cry out. Any small movement or expression caused her a tremendous amount of pain. She pressed the side of her face against the floor, finding some respite in the cold. The bloody bundle had landed some ten or fifteen feet away, but Edmund refused to even acknowledge its presence.

Once upon a time, Edmund Pevensie was a ten year old boy, a child with a good heart despite his mischievous, rebellious tendencies. He loved his mother, idolized his father, competed with his brother, and doted on his sisters.

But five years was more than enough time to change anyone.

He bent down and grabbed Velia, scoring his fingernails over her bruised chest as he clenched his fingers around the coarse fabric of her shirt and yanked her up so their faces were inches apart. No whine or whimper escaped her lips in spite of the agony caused by his manhandling and her dislocated shoulder, and neither did she shrug out of his grasp.

"I don't care if you become the Witch's new favorite," he whispered, his warm breath stroking her face, a sharp contrast to the words he spoke. "The day I break out of her holds, I _will_ kill her. And then I will kill you. I will twist off each and every one of your fingers, tear off your ears, use a butter knife to saw off your arms and legs millimeter by millimeter, utilize a spoon to peel your scalp from your skull, and roast you on a fire pit to melt the very flesh from your bones."

He threw her back onto the floor so roughly that her eyes nearly rolled up into the back of her head. When Edmund straightened, he looked up to see the Witch standing at the top of the stairs, her expressionless gaze burning into his skin.

"You will nurse that girl back to health," she declared. She slowly made her way down the stairs toward him, her blank stare never breaking. "Otherwise I will employ my magic and send you to dismember the rest of your sister."

He glared at her, his chest heaving like he'd run ten kilometers. His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood from his clenched fists.

"And I can make sure you can finish the job, whether or not you're alive."

He turned back to Velia stiffly, bent down, and lifted her up into his arms. He purposely jostled her as much as possible even though she was much lighter than he'd anticipated, and with one barely-audible hiss, she blacked out. Once she was secure, he brushed past the Witch so Velia's bloody boots grazed the pale white dress. She growled, and Edmund saw her move to strike him from behind. Instead, she seemed to think better of it and lowered her hand. He turned his head at the last second to see the Witch pick up the small, bloody bundle and open it. A slow, satisfied smile bloomed across her face, and Edmund turned away before he threw Velia aside and attacked the Witch.

He continued into the main hall, hiked up the left spiraling staircase, and pushed into a guest bedroom. He unceremoniously dropped Velia onto the mattress. That was when he realized exactly how pale she was in comparison to her dark attire and the blood she was soaked in. He took a step closer, staring down at her.

It would've been very easy to just let her bleed out. He could just sit down and wait until she stopped breathing. His excuse would be that he simply wasn't able to save her since she'd lost too much blood by the time she'd arrived.

But something caught his eye, something he hadn't noticed before because of all the blood and rage.

He grabbed a section of the sheets and wiped the thick red liquid from Velia's hand to see she was missing her right ring finger. He froze. He dropped her hand like it was on fire, his brain running through the possibilities.

_Did she cut her own finger and pass it off as Lucy's or was it coincidentally cut off during the battle? Is it even possible to get that finger cut off in battle? A thumb, a pinky, or even a pointer finer would be more probable—not a _ring_ finger. But why would she do that? Is she really a Narnian spy?_

He had to know.

And so he began to use the healing spells he learned to stitch her wounds closed. The bigger gashes on her shoulder and leg still held shards of glass and wood, and he levitated them up and out of her skin. He half-expected her to wake up shrieking in pain when he wrenched her dislocated shoulder back into place, but she was still unconscious. Along with a few thousand towels, he called for something for her to eat and drink once she awoke. He then had to order for a few female minions to dunk her in a tub to wash off all the blood, dirt, and grime before putting her in a decent set of clothes.

By the time he'd finished healing every inch of her, she barely looked like she'd even been in battle. He covered her right hand with the sheets in case the Witch came to inspect—which he did. She swept into the room in a new dress and studied the girl for a few seconds. Edmund silently put a glamour on Velia's right hand so she could still have a finger…if only for the moment.

"So you're _not_ as useless as you seem," said the Witch as she glided in. "She looks wonderful."

He sat down in the armchair next to her bed and crossed his arms over his chest in his standard reply.

She spun on her heel and gave him a small, excited look. "Would you like to see Lucy's finger? I have it on display in the throne room."

He glowered at her, trying to convey all of his hatred in one look. "No."

She shrugged and gave him a head-to-toe glance. "If you're sure."

"I am."

"My, my, my," she muttered, turning back to Velia. "You've changed so much, dear, but at the same time, you're the exact same taciturn little boy I crowned my successor."

"Crowned?" He scoffed. "_Cursed_, more like."

"Call it what you want," she said airily. "You and I still have a binding contract."

"A contract involves a certain amount of willingness from both parties. I was, am, and _always will be_ unwilling."

She sighed and waved her hand dismissively. "When she wakes, bring her to me. She may be able to turn the tide in our favor in this _tedious_ war."

"How do you know that?"

"She got in and out of Cair Paravel alive, didn't she?"

"_Barely_."

"Regardless of how much life was left in her, she still came back in one piece," she said, effectively ending that discussion.

_Well, two pieces, actually, _Edmund thought to himself.

She gave the sleeping Velia one last look before turning back to the door. "Are you coming down for dinner?"

He stared at her like she'd just jumped on the dresser and announced that she wanted to go to England and become an actress. "In the years I've been here, have I _ever_ eaten _any_ meal with you?"

She sighed exasperatedly. "Edmund, I was in such a celebratory mood, and now you've gone and _ruined_ it. Fine. Stay here and pass your time with the girl who is going to rip your family apart in the attack next week. I hope you two will have a very nice night together."

He braced his hands on the armrests to keep from throwing himself at her and smashing her head into the stone wall. She walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Velia stirred at the thunderous slam of the door. She sat up slowly and turned to see Edmund glaring down at her. He noticed that she surreptitiously kept her right hand hidden under the covers.

"What…are you doing here?" she asked, frowning slightly. "Come to punch me again? Or are you going to carry out your threats?"

"There's food." He motioned to the side table on the side of the bed, and she glanced at it before turning back to Edmund. "You should eat. The Witch wants to see you soon."

Her frown turned into a glare when he strode over to the door and locked it. "What are you doing?"

He whispered a spell over the door, soundproofing the room, before he stood at the foot of her bed. "Whose finger is that sitting in the Witch's throne room right now?"

She pulled her hand from the under the covers resignedly and examined the stump of her finger. "Mine."

He was a little thrown that she answered him so easily, but he didn't let it show. "Why?"

She rolled her eyes and fixed him with a disparaging stare. "Obviously because I couldn't get Lucy's."

"So you attacked Cair Paravel, nearly got yourself killed in the process, and ended up cutting off your own finger to pass it off as my sister's? How were you planning on walking around the castle with a missing finger? Did you think no one would notice?"

Her look turned withering. "I didn't even make it past the castle courtyard before I had to retreat. Half my body's blood supply marks my path back here in the snow, trudging through the cold, half-dead and desperate. It's hard to come up with brilliant plans when you can barely inhale and exhale, let alone put one foot in front of the other _and_ come up with an ingenious plot to fool a bloody sorceress."

"Why would you cut off your own finger? Why are you so intent on joining the Witch's army?"

She gingerly sat up, wincing with each movement, before she sighed, leaned against the headboard, and fixed him with that same sharp stare when they'd first met. "Because I feel like it."

Edmund blinked. "Excuse me?"

Velia smiled. "I don't feel like joining those Narnians if only because they are, in fact, lost and leaderless. The Lion is absent—just like always." She reached over to the plate of food beside her. "Simply put: I don't want to be on the losing side."

"Prove it."

Velia looked up, and Edmund met her gaze steadily. She smirked and turned back to her food, picking up a roll of bread and taking a bite. "Prove what?"

"That you're not a Narnian spy," said Edmund.

She laughed and shook her head. "Why? Suddenly you care about loyalty in the Queen's army? How would you like me to prove my allegiances anyway? Shall I return to Cair Paravel and attempt to cut off _Susan's_ finger this time?"

His upper lip curled into a scowl. "No."

"Then what do you want?" she asked between bites. "Peter's sword? Susan's horn? Lucy's healing cordial? A lock from the Lion's mane?"

After a few minute's silence, Edmund disdainful expression flattened into impassivity. "What do _you_ think is a surefire way to prove your loyalty? Because you haven't proven anything at all, apart from the fact that you're in the perfect position to be labeled a Narnian spy considering you sacrificed your finger for my sister's."

They stared at each other for the longest time until she sat up straighter, looking around the room. Spotting her clothes on a chair near the door, she set the tray of food aside, slipped out of bed, and hobbled to her things. She fumbled around with her clothes before pulling out a long, knife. She didn't even look back at Edmund before she gripped the blade in her left hand and sliced off her right.

It was Edmund's cry that rebounded off the soundproofed walls. "YOU'RE A LUNATIC!" He jumped off the bed, snatching up the sheets and wrapping it around her new bloody stump.

"I believe the phrase," she giggled deliriously, dropping the knife and wiping at the blood that had splattered on her face, "is, '_I'll give my own right hand for something.'_ Isn't it?"

He spared a second to stare at her in horrified disbelief before grabbing a fresh towel from the dresser. He wrapped it over the drenched sheet without a word. She was no Narnian spy—not unless they recruited absolute maniacs. Blood was pooling on the floor where her hand had fallen, and what little color that had come back to her face since she'd woken had vanished once more. She staggered back a step, wobbling dangerously.

He wrapped another towel around her hand before grabbing her around the waist and leading her back to bed. "You're _psychotic_," he muttered, pushing her to lay down before sitting next to her. He immediately went to work, unwrapping her hand as he magically weaved her skin together to stop the bleeding.

"Yes," she chortled, "but _not_ a Narnian spy. I think they like their appendages attached to their bodies. Am I officially in the army now?"

Edmund glanced at the hand still laying on the floor. "I'm sure you'll fit right in…with the rest of the monsters."

He'd attach her hand another time. As soon as the bleeding was staunched, he needed to go vomit.


	6. The Edge

**6  
**_**The Edge**_

* * *

Edmund watched Velia out of the corner of his eye. She was massaging her right hand, and it would have seemed like a normal action if he hadn't known it was because the hand would numb if she didn't move it often. He realized he'd used a faulty spell a second after he'd performed it, but there was no going back. It wasn't as if he could've chopped it off and started over. Though he was sure Velia herself wouldn't be so adverse to the idea, seeing her take off her own hand once was more than enough.

He cringed at the thought, one side of his upper lip curling into a small grimace. The way she just…sliced off her hand like it was…an impeding branch in a trek through the jungle—it made him very uncomfortable to be alone in a room with her again. What scared him the most wasn't the sigh of the blood spurting out of her severed wrist and out of the hand on the floor. It wasn't the look in her eyes—the coolly insane glint that convinced him she was no spy. It was that he still hadn't told the Witch of Velia's deceit.

She was crazy. She was a cheater. She was ruthless and bloodthirsty.

But when she looked at him that first time when she returned, as she held out the bloody wad of cloth—her eyes were alight with something akin to anger. Fury. Rage. And when she'd revealed it was her own finger she'd offered as Lucy's, he thought that perhaps that anger was directed to herself, for failing. But when she'd woken up, flexed her reattached hand, and sneered at the back of the Witch's head as the woman seemingly threw herself a one-woman party for the tiny victory, Edmund sat back and decided to wait.

He would wait for the day when he found out why Velia would sneer at the leader of an army she'd been so desperate to join.

She was absolutely, horrifyingly psychotic, but everyone had their secrets. In spite of that, though he did _not_ want to picture her anywhere near his siblings. Even Peter. But now, as they sat on the edge of war, near the battle grounds between the Witch's and Aslan's camps, he had to face himself with the reality that she probably _was_ going to meet his brother in battle.

Even worse: _he_ might have to meet Peter in battle. The thought—as much as he hated admitting it to himself—scared him for many different reasons. At eighteen years old, Peter had proven that his skills were worthy of the magnificent sword he wielded. He was a fierce warrior with a reputation that instilled fear into the hearts of the Witch's monsters. It didn't help that this was the first time Edmund was even _allowed_ out of the Witch's domain. Actually, he'd been forcibly dragged from the castle.

_Still._

He'd heard stories of battles, but that's all they'd been: stories. He'd had a firsthand experience with the effects of war—the bombing back in London that felt like a thousand years ago—but not once in his fifteen yeas had even sat on the front lines on the edge of battle, staring into the eyes of the creatures who were willing to lay down their lives for their families, their land, their _freedom_.

The atmosphere of the battlefield was thick with anticipation. _This was it,_ Edmund realized. This was the battle that everyone had been waiting for. The Prince Sorcerer and the White Witch had finally surfaced from their cold hell with the full force of their army, and the Narnian forces were ready to make their last stand. Their numbers were dwindling with every passing battle; they would not last for much longer.

But small as they may be, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Crimson and gold stood silent and undaunted as black and grey hoards shrieked, roared, and smashed their weapons together. Edmund peered between the centaurs, fauns, jaguars, and other animals, searching for any familiar face—any _human_ face. He didn't see a lion either, but he hadn't expected to. There'd never been reports of Aslan making an appearance at a battle. It'd been mostly Peter or the centaur generals that had led the Narnian army for the last three years.

And that scared Edmund a lot more than he'd anticipated.

His fears, though, were outweighed by the intense anger aimed at Velia. It goes without saying that he was furious with the Witch; he was _always_ mad at her. Velia, though, had been more than a thorn in his side for the last week—she'd been a_ broadsword_ right between the ribs. She'd been the one who'd pitched the idea of bringing Edmund along to battle so he could finally get a taste for blood. The Witch, of course, agreed to the "wise words" of her new, bloodthirsty, maniacal favorite. If he hadn't been so curious about the girl, Edmund would've thrown her across the room. Or turned her into a snowman.

"Besides," Velia had stated pompously, "I see no reason why he should stay cooped up here in the castle when the women are off fighting. He's older than me, and he's got the added ability of magic. Leaving him behind would be an absolute _waste_."

So there he was, squinting in the harsh sunlight, sweat dripping down his back like he really _was _made of ice and was therefore melting in the heat. The black band around his bicep was stinging painfully—as if it had a mind of its own and was sensing Edmund's desperation to steer his black stallion away and ride off into the forest.

"Are you afraid?"

He looked left to see Velia studying him. She was relaxed on the saddle of a reddish-brown mare, voice not quite as teasing as it normally was.

"No," he answered, his lie sounding truthful even to himself.

"Really? So the fact that your brother is _right there_ isn't bothering you at all?"

He snapped to the direction she'd jerked her chin, and his gaze swept over the army again. This time it rested on a young man clad in a knight's armor, holding his helmet in the crook of his left arm while his right hand rested on the hilt of a sword at his hip. His blond hair blew in the breeze as his dark eyes locked with Edmund's.

The Witch and Velia didn't miss the way Peter shook his head ever-so-slightly. Edmund's frown deepened, and he sighed, leaning back in the saddle. His response to Peter—five years' regret and guilt—culminated in a helpless shrug.

Even in spite of the distance he'd tried to put between himself and the Witch, he heard her chuckle. He glared at her, but she ignored it in favor of lifting her wand over her head and addressing everyone assembled on the battlefield, her voice magically amplified.

"Today," she bellowed, "this war _ends_!"

The army behind Edmund cheered while the one in front of him didn't even flinch.

"Today," continued the Witch, "we will decide who _rules this land_!"

Edmund Pevensie want to stab himself in the neck with his own sword.

"TODAY," she screeched, "_BROTHER_ WILL BE PITTED AGAINST _BROTHER_!"

He turned to give the Witch his most hateful glare, and she pointedly kept her eyes fixed away from him. Words tried to bubble out of his mouth and he reached for the sword at his hip, but the magic of the black band clamped his lips together and stilled his movements.

"TODAY, YOU WILL ALL_ BOW_ BEFORE THE WHITE QUEEN AND THE PRINCE SORCERER!"

And then the hand that had frozen in front of his stomach moved of its own accord. Edmund watched in horror as he reached across his lap, wrapped fingers around the hilt of the sword, and pulled it out of its scabbard, brandishing it over his head. He frantically willed his muscles to lower his arm or even use his other to wrench it down, but to his utter dismay, his body was no longer his. Sweat beaded across his forehead even in spite of the bloodcurdling cry that exploded from his throat. A harsh kick propelled his horse—and that _blasted army_—forward. The only thing that was truly _his_ were the staggered breaths, the panic, the fear.

Moments after he and the Witch's army charged, Peter shoved his helmet onto his head and roared, voice booming over the thunder of his enemy, _"FOR NARNIA!"_

Edmund felt nothing but his own heartbeat. He heard nothing but the mind-numbing ringing in his ears. He tasted nothing but metal and salt as he bit the inside of his cheek. He saw nothing but his brother's dark eyes as Edmund's horse led him—or rather his _uncontrollable body_ was led by the horse—straight toward Peter, sword pointing in the worst direction.

Observers of the battle have said the initial smash between the two armies to be heard for thousands of miles—that when they all collided, a huge pulse of energy rippled, shuddering through the trees and mountains.

Edmund felt no such thing.

Only agonizing fear.

He was less than a meter away from his brother before something slammed straight into Peter, knocking off his helmet as well as sending them both off the horse and rolling down the slope, off to the right. Edmund was suddenly released, and he reigned in his horse, steering it over to the edge of the slope to see where Peter and Velia had disappeared. When he peered over, the two were lost in the skirmishes. His eyes darted across the battlefield below, searching for familiar dark hair and even more familiar blond. He was so busy trying to spot either of them that he never knew what hit him—what knocked him off his horse and slammed him onto the ground, pushing the tip of a long, curved sword into the hollow of his throat.

He gawked at the dark red leather-clad figure who had its foot pushing down on his chest, impeding his breathing. It wore a black mast, and the only thing he could see were dark eyes. Its gender was indiscernible—either a lean, wiry young boy or a slim girl—there was just too much red leather.

"_IT'S THE RED SHADOW!"_


	7. The Clash

**7  
**_**The Clash**_

* * *

The red figure's head snapped up in the direction of the werewolf who'd howled, giving Edmund enough distraction to smack the blade away from his neck and kick the figure away. He jumped to his feet and grabbed a dwarf by the back of his cloak as the little creature darted past him.

"Who is the Red Shadow?!" demanded Edmund, shaking the dwarf.

The creature stared up at him with wide, fearful eyes. "W-We thought it was just a rumor that the outer p-p-patrols used to explain the di-disappearance of the battalion in the Shuddering Woods. We th-thought it was just an excuse to cover up the battalion's def-defection, but—"

"But apparently it _wasn't_ a rumor!" barked Edmund, shoving the dwarf away as he dodged the Shadow's small knife that whizzed past his cheek.

Why hadn't he heard about this before? A rumor of a creature that could take down an entire battalion should've caused a massive ruckus in the Witch's castle—she'd have turned the messenger to stone and…

_Oh._

_That's_ why they hadn't been told.

Edmund barely had time to lift his sword in defense as the Red Shadow rushed him, slicing its sword at Edmund's neck. He parried the attack and tried to use his bigger frame to throw it backward, but it danced out of his way and kicked him in the knee. He gasped in pain and dropped down, bringing his blade up to block another swipe just in time. The Red Shadow stepped close enough for Edmund to reach out and grab it by its ankle and wrench it to the ground. It dropped but also managed to kick him in the face with its other foot.

Edmund spat out blood as he and the Shadow clambered to their feet. He dropped into a fighter's stance, waiting for the Shadow to make the first move again, but it also seemed to be waiting for Edmund as it casually stood a few feet away, sword tip resting on the ground.

Lunging forward, Edmund feinted a slice to the Shadow's left and aimed a kidney punch to the right. As if reading his mind, the red figure somersaulted backward, away from both his blows, and simultaneously pulled out two small daggers, throwing them at his neck. His combined slice and punch gave him enough momentum to pitch forward, ducking under the flying knives. He tucked his head and rolled off his shoulder blade, jumping out of the roll before the Shadow managed to impale him into the ground with its sword.

The dance went on for what seemed like hours: Edmund attacked, the Shadow parried; the Shadow sliced, Edmund blocked.

The longer he fought and watched its movements, though, the more he began to think "it" was a "she." The lean structure began to look distinctively feminine. Edmund never heard of any...humanoid Narnian. There were centaurs, fauns, nyads, dryads, or animals, but nothing looked as distinctly human as she.

She must be Telmarine or... But even then, since when did the Telmarines join the Narnian civil war? And why wasn't she speaking? Was she mute? Why did she cover herself so completely? Was she that severely disfigured?

He became so absorbed in his thoughts about this Red Shadow that he slipped up. He lunged, and she caught his wrist, wrenched his sword out of his hands, and pointed the tip of her blade at his Adam's apple.

He jerked away from her sword, grabbing her wrist and twisting it so she dropped her sword as well. She threw a kick to his stomach, but he bent away from it to subsequently flip her away. She landed on her back but scrambled up again to make a dive for the closest weapon—his sword. He ran forward and kicked her elbow. She recoiled and retaliated with a swift kick between his legs.

He managed to jump away with a sigh of relief before he felt something slam into his chest, knocking him onto his back. The Red Shadow was now on top of him, ramming a bony fist into his face. She got in a few good punches before he was finally able to seize both her wrists and throw her off. They rolled over and over until they tumbled off the ledge and hit the ground six feet below, narrowly missing the jagged rocks.

Edmund groaned as he gingerly picked himself up. He could almost see the bruises on his back already. What he couldn't see anymore was the Red Shadow. She must've rolled off into the skirmish not far from where Edmund was standing, and he found himself sighing in relief for the second time.

Something shrieked above him and then crashed onto his shoulders, sinking sharp claws into his shoulders. He cried out in pain, and bucked to throw off the harpy that had latched onto his back. Between his violent thrashing, he noticed that the harpy's eyes had been gouged out, explaining why it was attacking its prince.

He almost cried out in relief when a broadsword flew through the air and embedded itself in the harpy's chest. It gave out one last feeble scream before dislodging from Edmund's back and dropping to the ground. He turned to see that his savior was none other than the Red Shadow again.

He seriously contemplated running away from her at that point.

It's not that he was eager to fight what seemed to be an elite warrior of the Narnian army. It's not that he wanted to keep the Witch from ripping him to pieces because he refused to fight either. Chalk it up to male pride. He didn't want to beaten by a girl—or Narnian-female-humanoid-creature.

He turned and heaved the sword out of the bloody corpse of the harpy and turned to face the Shadow again. She held knife in one hand—hardly an intimidating weapon—but Edmund knew that if he wasn't on his toes, she could still easily take off an appendage.

And he wasn't willing to have anything in common with Velia yet.

"What _are_ you?!" demanded Edmund.

The Shadow simply cocked her head to one side as if asking, _What are you talking about?_

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes before launching into another swordfight. They instantly fell back into their old pattern of attacking and dodging. As monotonous as it seemed, Edmund simply could not break her. They anticipated each other's movements too well. It was as much a mental battle as a physical one.

Or it _was _until she finally broke the pattern by spinning_ into_ his thrust, slamming her back into his chest, and elbowing him in the face. She sliced his wrist, forcing him to release his sword. She stomped on it and shattered it as soon as it hit the ground. In reply, Edmund threw one solid punch right in the middle of the mask where her nose was supposed to be. The mask was hard and she merely reeled back in surprise while Edmund nearly cried out in pain at his almost-broken knuckles. He gathered himself quicker than she did though, since his follow-up punch was to her neck, effectively cutting off her air supply and making her drop to the ground.

He was almost disappointed that the fight ended so anticlimactically.

He needn't have felt such. Later on, she rudely interrupted his fight with a centaur by tackling Edmund off the huge slab of rock he'd been on. They landed on fairly soft ground, but he didn't even get the chance to sit up before she slammed a boot down onto his chest.

He gasped for air as she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt to shove him onto his feet. She pulled her arm back and punched him so hard he was surprised the sheer force of the blow didn't decapitate him as he dropped onto the ground again. Stars danced across his vision while a high, keening sound rang in his ears. His skin prickled and burned.

That must've been her payback for the throat punch.

If this Red Shadow had been a centaur, a faun, cheetah, or whatever other Narnian, he knew it would've just run off to fight someone else, but this..._thing _refused to let him out of her sight—as if her _sole purpose_ in this battle was to monopolize Edmund's time.

The longer the thought lingered, the more he realized it didn't sound as ridiculous as he'd initially thought. Whatever her mission in this battle was, he was becoming extremely annoyed by it.

Through the stars, he saw her coming at him again, and he was conscious enough to pull a foot back and kick her in the stomach. She doubled over, and he vaguely wondered if she would rip off the mask and throw up so he could finally see _what_ was under the disguise. He sat up and resolutely decided that he needed to _end_ this.

Closing his eyes and hearing the whispered spells in his mind, Edmund pulled the water out of the ground to creep up and freeze around the Shadow's legs, locking her into place as she continued to keep from being sick. By the time she finally straightened up, her entire lower half was sheathed in a block of ice.

Her eyes locked onto Edmund's, and he could almost see the fire behind them.

The ice suddenly crackled and hissed as steam rose from the block. She was _melting _the ice.

That actually took Edmund's breath away—as if he'd just been kicked in the chest again.

Fire and ice?

This game they were playing was now officially upsetting him.

Rallying his wits again, he pulled more water out of the ground, freezing them into shards of ice that flew at the Shadow—cold, sharp daggers that sliced at the red and black leather. Furiously, the Shadow waved her arms, melting the remaining shards in midair and hurling a wave of searing heat at Edmund. He pulled up a wall of ice out of the water, but that shattered when the heat collided with it. He flew back, feeling mildly singed even though his clothes showed no signs of it. He reacted badly with heat—what should be normal, warm temperatures now burned him as if he'd held his hands inside a campfire. He conjured huge gusts of cold, freezing winds and threw them at her, but she encased herself in a bubble of fire. The others around her weren't as fortunate. They froze mid-battle and were picked up off the ground and thrown far away. She dropped the bubble as soon as he stopped the gale-force winds.

Their previous clash of swords and skills now turned into a collision of elements. They threw everything they could at each other. Edmund pulled huge amounts of water out of the ground and even the air to freeze and throw at the Shadow in varying forms and sizes while the Shadow threw fireballs, melted rocks and threw molten lava, and conjured huge streams of fire out of her hands.

The Witch's forces and the Narnian army continued to fight though they gave the two a huge berth so as to not get in the crossfire. Many were nursing burns while others were bruised, scratched, and frostbitten. The battle seemed to last forever. Edmund and the Shadow were both breathless and weak. Physical fights were always less taxing than magic. There was a relative calm in their secluded little bubble as both sides staggered from dizziness and lightheadedness. The Red Shadow was on all fours, chest heaving with labored breaths while Edmund was on one knee, trying to keep his eyes from spinning and his head from swimming before he regurgitated what little food he'd eaten before. Even in their current state of weariness, they were still dead-set on killing each other. It wasn't a matter of life or death anymore. Their fight had gone beyond the realm of civil war and freedom and straight into a childish _rivalry_.

The only thing that could end that situation of war-masked immaturity was a roar that boomed through the plains and skittered over the rocks. The ground trembled once again, but instead of the release of bottle-up tension between two armies, everyone on the battlefield froze.

A collective whisper breathed through the two armies as Edmund stood.

"_Aslan."_


	8. The Curse

**8  
**_**The First**_

* * *

"_Aslan."_

"_Aslan?"_

"_Aslan!"_

The name echoed all over the battlefields, but it remained a low murmur instead of rising into disbelieving protests or joyful cries. As if those who weren't scared witless of the prospect of meeting the lion in battle were too in awe of Him to utter His name above a whisper.

The Great Lion had finally come.

Completely forgetting about the Red Shadow and the battle itself, Edmund made for the general direction of where the roar had originated. He seriously considered dropping the sword, but he remembered that he was still in the middle of the battlefield. The Narnian forces and the Witch's army blurred into one as Edmund rushed past them, breaking into a full sprint toward the small spark of hope that his humanity wasn't lost.

Because that was what the Witch held over him.

By stripping him of his humanity, she'd turned his entire being into her own personal doll. He retained his mind and therefore his will, but his flesh was all hers. It was why he was able to wield magic, how his normal body temperature had dropped so drastically, and why she could control him like a puppet when she wished. He technically wasn't possessed because this wasn't his body to begin with.

It had taken her a great deal of magic to pull off such an earth-shattering spell—or curse, as Edmund considers it—and she was unable to use magic for the following six months. And even then, she wasn't back to her full strength until after a year.

She had invested so much because he was her contingency plan, her fallback. If all else failed, Edmund would save her day by essentially ending everyone else's.

The thought popped into his head, distracting him so much that his shoulder clipped the back armor of a minotaur, and he careened into a patch of fauns and animals, knocking them all down in a sea of cries and protests.

A faun was the first to turn and realize that the Prince Sorcerer himself had just bowled them over, and the Narnian raised his sword. A blur of black and silver yanked the weapon out of his hand and kicked him away. The blur then proceeded to reach out and grab Edmund by the collar to wrench him up and out of the tangle of Narnians. Edmund twisted around to see that Velia'd been the one to wrestle him out of the mess of limbs and hooves. He let himself be dragged away behind a massive boulder, but as soon as they were hidden, he grabbed the girl by the throat and slammed her up against the rock.

Dark eyes, shadowed by tendrils of long, dark hair falling out of the braid she'd done up before they left the Witch's lands. She was covered in black leather body armor because she'd learned from experience that blood would be invisible against the color. Even now, a light film of blood covered almost every inch of the black leather, dripping and oozing downward.

And with that thought, Edmund asked, "Where is Peter?"

She glared at him, her hands squeezing his wrist. "He's alive," she rasped barely above a whisper. "I haven't seen the other two."

Edmund's eyes widened. "Susan and Lucy are _here_?!"

He slackened his grip so her feet were back on the ground, but his grip kept her back firmly pressed against the boulder.

"The older usually stays behind with the archers, and the younger stays with the medics some ways away from the battles—and she's rarely ever spotted to begin with," coughed Velia, "but this was a major battle—they should be around here somewhere, though I haven't seen them."

_Thank goodness,_ thought Edmund.

He hesitated before releasing the girl. She sagged against the rock and rubbed her neck, scowling up at him.

"You could've just asked normally," she pointed out coldly. "You needn't _kill_ me to get your information. We're on the same side, remember? Wait, where are you going?!"

He skirted around the boulder and took off in the same northerly direction, his skin prickling in anticipation as another roar resounded over the battlefield. That seemed to trigger the fighting to start anew, giving Edmund a much harder time getting through the armies.

He batted away the attacks of a particularly enthusiastic dwarf and inadvertently-on-purpose dislodged three wraiths from the back of an already-wounded centaur. The black band constricted painfully, as if sensing his good deeds, but he ignored it and continued to barrel through the battlefield.

He finally stopped at the edge of a slab of rock that jutted out from the top of the hillside. The battle continued to rage below. Though they were outnumbered, the Narnian forces held their own. They were extremely skilled as they each grappled with more than one foe at a time. One soldier in particular was surrounded by at least seven of the Witch's minions—a minotaur, a troll, two wraiths, a werewolf, a harpy, and a polar bear with a bloody muzzle. It just so happened that the warrior had a head of blond hair.

Edmund watched his brother hack through the bear's slashing claws, deflect the minotaur's blows before slicing his sword across the creature's neck, and pick up a stray sword and hurl it straight into the werewolf's forehead.

A flash of white in the left corner of Edmund's eye caused him to turn and see the Witch heading straight for Peter, wand and sword ready. His lungs seemingly collapsed when he saw that Peter was too engrossed in his struggle with the troll to see what was coming up behind him. He couldn't risk calling out to Peter in fear of breaking his brother's concentration and alerting the Witch to his presence, which would lead to her controlling him and forcing him to kill his brother himself.

Another roar boomed, this time so ear-splitting that it could only mean Aslan was near. Edmund turned to his right and saw the Lion bounding toward Peter, but He was still too far away. The Witch was too close, and He wouldn't reach them in time.

Time slowed as Edmund became painfully aware of the sword in his hand and his position atop the rock. He glanced back down at the Witch with her gleefully evil expression as if she could hardly contain her joy at the prospect of being so close to killing the eldest Pevensie. His eyes then slid to Peter who'd just dispatched a troll with its own club and was now shifting his focus back and forth between the two wraiths.

The Witch was now less than five meters away.

In a moment of sheer terror and absolute fury, Edmund leaped off the edge of the rock, sword held above his head so when he brought it down, it smashed through the Witch's outstretched wand, effectively shattering the glass baton into a million pieces.

For a space of a heartbeat, Edmund felt that small, fleeting hope that maybe—_just maybe_—all his problems would be solved. His brother would be spared. Narnia would be saved. His spell would be broken, the Witch would be powerless, and he and his family could go home.

In that space of a heartbeat, he was the closest to happy he'd been in five years.

But when the glass wand fractured and split, a huge pulse of energy knocked them all back and left a thin film of frost over everything within a fifty-meter radius. A split-second later, that small, fluttering hope shriveled and died as every cell in his body froze, the pain so severe that the cold _burned_. Edmund and the Witch both cried out—one in pain and the other in a fury.

Edmund felt his legs give way, but his brother caught him just in time. The Witch had lunged with her sword, but the Lion—having finally arrived—pounced, knocking her to the ground.

"Fool!" she spat as her apprentice's body began to twitch and spasm in Peter's arms. "You have only given your doom swifter wings and an easier passage!"

"What are you talking about?!" demanded Peter, clutching his younger brother protectively. "What doom?!"

"That," laughed the Witch, "is not your brother anymore, Son of Adam."

"What curse have you put on him, Witch?" asked Aslan, His voice low and threatening as His breath blew against her face like a hot, desert wind. It burned her skin.

She smiled despite the burn. "A curse that even the Great Lion of the East cannot lift. Your boy will _die_ before you can save him."

"BREAK THE CURSE!" bellowed Peter as Edmund cried out in pain again.

The Witch laughed one last time. _"Impossible."_

"So you say," rumbled Aslan before roaring in her face and causing her skin to catch fire and crackle and smolder like burning paper.

Nothing but a small patch of ash and shattered glass was left on the ground.


	9. The Black

**9  
**_**The Black**_

* * *

Edmund couldn't understand the feeling. Weightlessness? Detachment? Suffocation?

And then with a sickening thought, he realized what it was: paralysis.

Blackness lifted him up, weighed him down, and cut him off from all of his senses. Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to feel, nothing to smell, and nothing to taste. He was swimming in darkness with only his own thoughts as a means of sanity and some semblance of comfort.

He vaguely wondered if this was death—or at least the precursor to the afterlife. He was fairly sure if he was in hell, he'd be burning, and since he wasn't exactly walking on streets of gold that glimmered in the warm sunlight, he wasn't in heaven either. He decided that he would deem this place purgatory—the waiting area. Here was the place where a sinner would come to terms with his fate in the fires of hell and where the righteous and good were to pay for their mortal sins before entering the pearly gates.

Edmund counted himself in the former group. There was no way he would be in the latter—not after selling out his siblings for a worthless crown and evil magic.

In the nebulous amount of time it took him to finally resign himself to his afterlife, he didn't feel the tiny presence near him. It was just a speck at first—like a small particle of dust—but the longer Edmund remained in his purgatory, the larger it grew until it was like a wisp of smoke curling around his consciousness. It smelled of roses, tasted of mint, and whispered like the breeze.

He itched to reach out and grab it or diffuse it, and he wanted to roar in frustration when he felt he had no arm or hand to carry out his thought.

"Edmund," it whispered so quietly that he didn't even realize he was hearing anything at first. "Edmund..."

He longed to reply—to demand who was there—but he had no lips to open and no tongue to speak with.

"Edmund..." it just kept whispering relentlessly.

He couldn't discern if the voice was male or female, but it hardly mattered. The sound—even though soft and barely audible—made something in the recesses of his mind stir and bristle uncomfortably. He struggled to move away from the wisps of smoke but to no avail.

"...made a mistake..." hissed the smoke.

_Mistake?_ he thought frantically._ What mistake? Who made a mistake? Did I...?_

"...remember the curse...you've brought on yourself..."

If a consciousness could vomit, Edmund was sure he would have.

_WITCH!_ he roared furiously, flexing and thrashing against the blackness.

The smoke thickened until it was a cloud surrounding him and threatening to envelop and drown him. "Fool..." it hissed malevolently.

_You're the fool!_ he thundered. _You were the one who dared to face the Lion!_

The smoke flared and grew, but it immediately shrank back once more. "...have all the power of Narnia, but...still have the foolishness of a _human_..."

_You're dead, Witch,_ he thought venomously. _You can't punish me for my foolishness from the grave._

"…where you're wrong," laughed the voice.

* * *

Velia sidled along the massive boulder and peeked out the side. The Prince Sorcerer was still unconscious and cradled in the arms of his older brother. The eldest Pevensie was still frantically trying to awaken Edmund, but his efforts were futile. Edmund remained stubbornly unresponsive. Aslan looked on from a few feet away, and even Velia could see the storm brewing in the Great Lion's eyes.

_Something was wrong._

She ducked back into the crevice and ran her hands through her hair. Three werewolves were cleverly hidden between various other rocks while four wolves who had soaked themselves in the fallen's blood played dead nearby. The rest of the Witch's army had escaped into the forests in retreat, but a select few remained on the battlefields, waiting for the signal to take back their new leader.

Velia risked exposure once more to check the position of the incoming Lucy Pevensie before ducking back into her shelter and wrapping her hand around the hilt of the sheathed sword at her hip and swiftly pulling it out. She poised the flat of the blade at the very edge of the entrance of her hiding place and tilted it twice to reflect the sunlight.

She didn't have to look to know the werewolves and wolves were sliding into position. It was fortunate, really, that Lucy Pevensie took the obvious route from the Narnian camp to where Aslan, Edmund, and Peter were.

It was even more fortunate, actually, that the seven cretins stuck around and actually followed Velia's silent orders. It was a downright _miracle_.

One last flicker of sunlight reflected off her sword, and the minions dashed out of their hiding places to ambush Lucy. A second after that, Aslan sprung to action and bounded to the screaming girl's rescue. A split-second later, Velia darted out and sprinted to Edmund's side.

Peter reached for his sword, but Velia had already poised the tip of her blade against his throat.

"Your brother isn't safe with you," she said earnestly, trying to put as much truth into her words and expression as possible so he wouldn't fight or question her.

Peter locked eyes with her for a brief moment, but he took in everything—the black hair, the black eyes, the black leather, the black sword... If she was wearing a furious or even a cold expression, she could be the human embodiment of evil, but her face dispelled all that.

"Where are you going to take him?" he asked, glancing back down at his twitching brother.

"Back to the Witch's castle. Something is wrong, and neither your sister's cordial nor Aslan himself can do much to help him right now," she answered, sheathing her sword and bending down.

With the strength that Peter did not expect to see a girl of her stature having, she heaved Edmund over her shoulder. He stood up to help steady her, but she didn't seem to need his assistance at all. She turned to leave, but Peter grabbed her elbow.

"You'll protect him, won't you?" he asked quietly, knowing full well that he was going to regret letting this girl leave with his brother—and yet for some strange reason, he was still going to let her go.

Dark brown eyes met black for another second before she replied, "With my life."

The girl in black sprinted off and disappeared into the woods by the time Aslan and Lucy came up beside Peter.

"Are you all right?" asked Peter, gripping Lucy's shoulders and looking her over.

She nodded, but her brow was creased in worry. "They didn't even touch me. Peter, _why did you let her leave with Edmund?_ Where are they _going_?"

"Something's happened to Edmund, Lu," murmured Peter, staring back off into the distance. "I'm sure we'd only make it worse, but she can help him."

"Are you sure you're not making a mistake?" asked Lucy.

Peter sighed wearily and walked back to where he'd dropped his sword. He picked it up before turning back to where Lucy waited for his answer. Meeting Aslan's warm gaze, Peter took a deep breath and sheathed his sword.

"I don't know."

* * *

"This would've been an absolutely _brilliant_ idea," gasped Velia, "if I'd stolen a couple of horses before I came and got you."

She paused on the side of the hill and took a few deep breaths before continuing.

"When are you planning on waking up anyway? Because I _will_ surely strangle you if you wake up as soon as we reach the castle, Edmund, I swear to you, I will do it."

She huffed and puffed across two more hills before she finally gave up. She let Edmund slide off her shoulder as she collapsed on the ground next to him.

"You need to cut back on that Turkish Delight," she groused, smacking him on the stomach. She waited for a reaction. When none came, she punched him in the stomach and growled, "Not even a twitch? A moan? Come on, Prince Sorcerer, wake up! I'm in no condition to be lugging you across Narnia! I haven't eaten in hours, slept in a day, and I can't even remember the last time I had a decent, intellectual conversation that didn't involve dismemberment, disembowelment, or decapitation!"

She crawled closer to Edmund and patted his face repeatedly. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. It's not fair that _you_ get rest while I can't. Wake up. Wake up. _Wake up!_"

Her pats turned into slaps.

"Do I have to drag you to the nearest body of water and _throw you in_, you lazy fool?!" she cried, gripping his collar and shaking him violently. _"Wake!"_

When it finally sank in that no attempt on her part would rouse him, she sat back and sighed up at the sky. She waited for a few more minutes before she sighed one more time, got back up to her feet, heaved Edmund over her shoulder again, and continued on her way.

"Bloody imbecile. Don't tell me you're unconscious because of something absurd like prolonged heat exposure."

* * *

The smoke laughed, lilting and sharp against Edmund's mental ears.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid boy," hissed the Witch. Her voice had gotten strong enough to form a complete sentence, but it was still barely above a whisper. "Not even death can separate us. Though you may loathe me, you know that I am a part of you."

_Always with the dramatics, Witch,_ growled Edmund.

He could hear heavy breathing somewhere close—as if someone nearby was trying to struggle up a hill. He took that as a good sign. He'd regained at least _one_ of his human senses; now he needed to rid himself of this smoky pest and regain the other four. But even as he struggled against his black ocean, he knew that no amount of effort on his part was going to bring him back to consciousness. Something else was holding him back here, and he strongly hoped and prayed that it was not the Witch's doing.

"You will not be able to leave your mind until you remember what it is you have to do, my young apprentice."

_Remember what? To burn down your castle as soon as I get out of this? I promise, I won't forget_.

"I know you've read my grimoires, boy." The smoke flared and surrounded his consciousness momentarily before pulling back. "Rack that puny little brain of yours and remember something interesting I know you stumbled upon."

_If I could kill you right now, I would._

"Oh, stop with the threats, Edmund. It's neither becoming nor useful in your current situation."

_Threats? All right. Let me just sit here and fantasize of various ways to kill you…_again.

"It would behoove you, young man, to _remember_."

_It would _behoove me_ if you would just tell me what it is I'm supposed to remember, Witch, instead of _urging_ me to do it myself!_

"FOOLISH BOY,_ REMEMBER!"_

Edmund suddenly stilled himself and remembered.

* * *

Edmund's eyes snapped open and he gasped for air, not even realizing his current position. Velia was knocked off balance by Edmund's sudden jump and lost her footing. They crashed onto the ground in a jumble of limbs, and because Velia had unfortunately been traipsing _down_ the hill, they _rolled_ the rest of the way down in a mess of dirt and curses until they landed in a heap at the bottom of the small hill.

"You moron!" shrieked Velia, clambering up to her feet. "You could've broken both of our necks!"

"How was I supposed to know you'd thrown me over your shoulder like that, you skinny monster!" Edmund spat back, rubbing his sore hip. He staggered to his feet and rubbed his forehead. "Come on. We need to get back the castle quickly."

Velia glared at him. "Well, then it's your turn to carry me," she snapped. "I've been carrying you over my shoulder for the last ten kilometers. These legs aren't taking another step."

They glared at each other for two seconds before Edmund bent and lifted her up into his arms. Believing that he wouldn't actually do it, Velia opened her mouth to protest, but Edmund cut her off by muttering a spell that caused them to fade into the air.

Their molecules slammed back together in the throne room of the Witch's castle.

He unceremoniously deposited her onto a nearby chair, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand and reminded her in a low voice, "You refused to take another step. I merely obliged."

He turned on his heel and marched toward the staircase on the left side of the throne room. He paused as he passed the Witch's ice throne, and Velia wondered if he was about to sit in it. Instead, he walked back to her, unsheathed her sword, strode back toward the throne, heaved the sword above his head, and shattered it. Ice shards flew across the room and chips rained down like snow.

She said nothing as he tossed her sword back to her. She continued to maintain her silence as she followed Edmund up two flights of stairs until they reached the Witch's study. It became increasingly difficult to keep her mouth shut as she watched Edmund rip through the bookshelves and scrolls and chests.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, trying her hardest to keep the sarcastic, mocking tone out of her voice.

Her attempt at civility was met with silence, so she sighed and took a seat on the sofa. She leaned her back against one armrest and rested her feet on the other as she watched the tornado that was Edmund Pevensie tear through the rest of the room like a madman.

A big black wolf eventually padded into the room, summoned by the thunderous noise Edmund was making.

"Your Majesty, what are you looking for?" he asked obsequiously.

Edmund ignored him.

"Mason!" Velia greeted him cheerfully. "Come take a seat and watch the show. Have you heard the news? The Witch is dead."

The wolf's formal demeanor suddenly shifted as he came to Velia's side to sit back on his hind legs and wag his tail. "Well, that changes things!" He nodded his muzzle toward Edmund. "So what's the new king up to?"

"Don't call me the king!" barked Edmund, throwing a particularly large tone over his shoulder.

Velia smirked. "Then what should we call you, Prince Sorcerer? 'Your Royal Lunacy?' Does that better suit your tastes?"

Edmund finally turned to level a glare at the both of them. "I am not royalty in this world. You will not address me as such. But regardless of rank, I think the fact that I can encase you in a block of ice and bury you twenty leagues under the sea should warrant a certain amount of respect."

Mason's eyes widened and a small whine escaped from his jaws. Velia, on the other hand, looked completely unimpressed, but she didn't argue.

"Will 'sir' suffice?" she asked mildly.

He stared at her for a second longer before giving a noncommittal grunt and turning back to his madness.

"So what _are_ you looking for, _sir_?" asked Mason, shooting Velia a reproving look. "Perhaps either of us could be of some assistance?"

The girl merely rolled her eyes. "Yes, do enlighten us to the motives of your frenzy."

Edmund suddenly cried out in triumph and straightened up. In his hand, he held a small, black book with runes etched in silver over the cover.

"What is that?" asked Velia, sighing deeply. "The Witch's old diary?"

"Better," he said, crossing the room to the massive desk.

Velia slid off the couch and leaned over Edmund's shoulder as he flipped open the small book.

"It's all in another language," she muttered. "You know how to read it?"

He didn't answer as he stopped on one particular page. His expression rapidly darkened until he ripped out three pages and held them against the candle's flame. Velia set her hand on his shoulder, but he didn't turn to look at her.

"Edmund, what was that?"

"That was my future," he said plainly, "going up in flames."

She blinked. "That wasn't _nearly_ as melodramatic as I would expect to hear from you," she muttered sarcastically. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugged away from her hand to pull off his leather armor.

Velia cleared her throat and cocked an eyebrow. "Er, I believe your quarters are on the other side of the castle—"

Shooting her longsuffering look, he pulled up his sleeve to show her the black band on his arm. Tentatively, she reached out and ran two fingers along the circle.

"You're cursed," she muttered.

"I was _human_, Velia," he said. "My skin wasn't this pale before. My eyes were brown, not blue. And I doubt very much that any human could wield magic like I can."

"So you're saying she transformed you?" Mason clarified, finally padding up to the pair and joining the conversation. "That is a very old, very powerful, and very complex spell."

"I know," said Edmund bitterly. "I found this book two days after she began my magical training, and I eventually figured it out."

"By 'figure out' you mean 'translated,' right? Because this all looks like badger scratches," muttered Velia, taking the book and flipping through the pages.

"The Witch didn't cast that spell just to transform me into her perfect successor," explained Edmund. "According to those pages I just burned, she made me into her puppet."

There was a moment of silence as Velia and Mason took that in. Mason was the one who seemed genuinely surprised; Velia was contemplative.

"That was why you would move around like a stiff board when she'd order you to do something, wasn't it? She was _controlling_ you?"

Edmund made a resolute decision to pay as much attention to Velia as she did to him.

"It's all a very complicated mess, but the only thing you need to know is that I cannot die." He snatched her upper arms, gripping them tightly, and stared at her with the most vulnerable expression she'd ever seen him make. "Under no circumstances can you let me die."

"Well, _obviously_! You're the—"

"Both of you!" snapped Edmund, glancing back and forth between the girl and the wolf.

Four years ago, Mason had just been a mere messenger wolf, and at that point in his life, he would've died a messenger wolf. But Edmund had been having a particularly nasty day, and he was in no mood to tolerate another one of the Witch's random statue-makings and stepped in to spare the wolf's life. Now that Mason had survived long enough, he was the only friend of the Prince Sorcerer and the head messenger wolf.

Velia, on the other hand… Edmund couldn't possibly try to categorize her or even determine their exact relationship. He wasn't even sure if they were _friends_. But for some strange reason, he was now trusting her with his life.

"I'm trusting the both of you to keep this a secret between the three of us. And I'm trusting you to keep me alive not because of self-preservation. My death is not something you want to deal with."

"What aren't you telling us?" asked Mason anxiously, stepping forward to nudge Edmund's hip with his nose—a small gesture of reassurance.

"Just…trust me on this," muttered Edmund. "Don't let me die."


	10. The War

**10  
**_**The War**_

* * *

Edmund ran his hands down his face in frustration as Velia smirked on his right. He sat at the head of a long, rectangular table in the Witch's war room while Velia was leisurely perched on the arm of his chair, her arm slung across the back. He'd been cornered in the throne room by two minotaurs and three hags demanding an audience with the new king.

"Why must we continue open war?" the wraith continued to hiss, gesturing madly.

"We should just do away with the Son of Adam and Daughters of Eve!" an incubus pointed out vehemently. "Then all our problems would be solved!"

"I don't understand why you're all still fussing over this prophecy," sighed Velia, already tired of the discussion. "It can no longer come to pass considering one Son of Adam sits here right now."

"We need to be thorough!" a bat spoke up.

"Exactly! We need to kill the other three and then kill him!" cried a dwarf from the other end of the room, pointing a pudgy little finger at Edmund. "That way we can ensure the prophecy will never happen!"

Not even a second passed before a knife flew through the air and sank hilt-deep into the dwarf's forehead. The little creature dropped onto the stone floor and a pair of wolves converged to drag the body away.

All heads swiveled to stare at Velia.

"I have more knives if anyone else is willing to throw out more stupid ideas," she offered good-naturedly.

"Wait, which one was the stupid idea? Targeting the humans or targeting the king?" asked a minotaur, raising a hoof-arm.

Velia shot him a longsuffering look. "Targeting the king, fool."

"So we don't kill the king," hummed a ghoul. "We still kill the others."

"And how do you do that exactly?" asked Edmund. "It'll all just be futile attempts because Peter, Susan, and Lucy will all be heavily guarded."

"She wasn't that heavily guarded," pointed out the wraith, reminding the room of Velia's distraction. "The wolves were able to attack her before Aslan got to them."

"It seems you've forgotten that the girl took down two of those wolves herself," said Mason. "These are no longer children we're dealing with. They're young, but they've been trained in combat—and apparently, they learn fast."

"Even one skilled fighter can be brought down by overwhelming numbers," said a hag, scoring her nails across the table.

"And we have that advantage over the Narnians," agreed the ghoul. "We outnumber them."

"Despite the fact that they out-skill us," mumbled Velia derisively under her breath, eliciting a snort from Edmund.

"So we need to focus an elite group of warriors to attack one of the humans," said the hag, bloodlust turning her eyes an even brighter right. Velia leaned forward, clenched fists braced on the tabletop, and the hag seemed to cow. In a sign of grudging deference, the hag turned to Edmund. "What say you, _Your Majesty_?"

Edmund looked taken aback for a moment before he lifted his eyes to Velia's. When she only blinked, he turned back to the Witch's minions and took a deep breath. "Do whatever you want."

There was a low murmur of excitement as the Minions all exchanged glances, nodding.

"I say the little girl should still be our primary target," cried the minotaur.

"I doubt she'd still be allowed back on the battlefields after that last attack to distract the Lion," hissed the ghoul contemplatively.

"No," said Edmund, rubbing his jaw. "I know Lucy. She'll refuse to be left behind."

"But the fact still remains that she'll be heavily guarded now. She'll have an entire convoy of bodyguards," said Velia. "It'll be impossible to reach her."

"Then we target the eldest," said the hag. "He's always leading the army, so taking him down would severely damage the morale of those Narnians. For as long as all Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve are alive, those Narnians will have something to hope for—something to fight for. We eliminate the eldest, and the two girls will falter. When the family falls, the army falls." She glanced at Edmund. "One brother has already strayed, if the other should perish, the prophecy will be no more and the Narnians will kneel for us."

Velia scoffed, interrupting Edmund's downward spiral of thoughts. "Now if Peter's the mark, one _elite team_ won't be enough. You've all seen him fight. It might've worked for Lucy or Susan, but not for Peter. He trains hard, and it pays off."

"How do you know so much about the humans, Velia?" spat the ghoul. "Harboring a fancy for the golden-haired boy?"

"I make it a point to know my enemies," Velia replied acidly, leveling a glare that made the hag take a full step back from the table. "And next time you decide to present me with a stupid question, my answer will come at you in the shape of a knife."

Mason growled into the awkward silence that ensued. "Back to the task at hand… If an elite team won't work if our mark is the boy, what do you have in mind, Velia?"

Sparing two more seconds' glare at the hag, Velia turned back to the war council. "Who's our best warrior?"

"You," chorused the Minions without hesitation.

She wasn't a prideful creature, but she knew her abilities. "We distract Aslan," said Velia, "send our best warriors to attack Susan, and I'll attack Peter."

All the Minions seemed pleased. The few who had the ability of facial expressions managed filthy grins.

"Brilliant!" gasped the hag. "If we—"

"Wait," interrupted Edmund. "What about the Red Shadow?"

The Minions took a collective shudder, and Edmund's eyes narrowed. So they _did_ know about the accursed creature. He vaguely wondered why they would decide to keep it from him but then decided it wasn't worth the effort.

"His Majesty has a point," said an incubus. "That red-clad monster is as much a threat as the boy. It needs to be taken care of."

"Only the king can keep that creature at bay," grunted the minotaur. "Didn't you see how it just kept coming back to him over and over."

"But since His Majesty can no longer participate in the battle, who can distract that creature from protecting the boy and coming between him and Velia?" asked the incubus. "That Red Shadow can tear through an entire army. If it wasn't for that fire, the demon wouldn't be as much of a problem."

It was ironic that the demon was labeling others as demons, but that was beside the point.

"We can't spare another handful of good warriors to focus on that thing. We have Aslan to worry about, and if we've got to keep the ruse up on the younger girl until Velia can eliminate the boy, sheer number may not be enough."

"So what now?" asked the minotaur.

"Velia was right," muttered the incubus. "We outnumber them, but they out-skill us."

Edmund glanced to his right when Velia clicked her tongue against her teeth.

"Therein lies the problem," she said, standing and crossing her arms over her chest. "This army has no organization. It's hardly even a legitimate army. It's just a disorganized rabble of creatures."

Edmund eyed her warily, hoping she wasn't about to do what he thought she was proposing.

But she did.

* * *

She organized the Minions.

Edmund stared out through the window at the eastern courtyard that the Minions had used as a sparring area. The black-leather-wearing psychopath stood at the top of the steps at the entrance of the courtyard and barked out orders as she assembled the—_his_—new army. She'd organized them into four groups: the Muscle, the Stealth, the Archers, and the Cleaners—at least that's what she called them to their faces. Last night, she'd sat in the Witch's—_his_—study, she'd called them the Brutes, the Creepers, the Hands (the ones who could actually hold a bow and arrow steady enough to shoot), and the Useless.

_She actually organized the Minions._

He'd hoped she wouldn't—for the Narnians' sakes, at least—but she did. She formed legitimate battalions, set them into legitimate battle formations, and taught them legitimate battle strategies. And now she was about to lead them into a legitimate battle with a legitimate strategy to legitimately kill his brother.

So when she looked up, spotted him at the window, and gave him a mock salute, Edmund scowled and retreated into his study. He grabbed one of the Witch's old spellbooks, wracking his brain to remember the extra word to use when summoning an astral projection in an animal form—oh, _yes._

Lupus.

* * *

"It should have worked!" shrieked the hag, snatching a chair and chucking it against the wall, smashing it and sending splinters everywhere.

"Calm yourself!" roared Edmund, waving his hand and sending the hag up against the wall she'd just smashed the chair against.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," she gritted out, her voice muffled as her face was smushed against the wall. "But the plan _should have worked._"

"Aslan wasn't even there, and we only caught glimpses of the Red Shadow," growled the incubus, clenching and unclenching his fists. "There were _two less_ than we had to worry about!"

"That wolf came out of nowhere," murmured Velia, running her fingers over the buckles of her chest armor. She didn't seem frustrated, angry, or even bothered—and that scared Edmund. It had been her plan; she should've been furious or even irritated, but she wasn't. She only stood there, bereft of even a frown. And then she cocked her head to the side and added, "Yet it seemed so familiar."

"That wolf? I've never seen one like it," said Mason, swishing his tail back and forth contemplatively.

"What was so special about it?" asked Edmund.

Mason shot him a look. "Have you ever seen a silver-muzzled, silver-pawed, and silver-tailed black wolf with _gold_ eyes, Your Majesty?"

The hag hissed at the mention of the wolf as she remained pinned to the wall. Edmund's mouth turned down in a slight grimace. Apparently, his wolf stood out a little _too much_.

"I don't understand," hissed the ghoul. "Where do these Narnians keep pulling these soldiers out from? The Red Shadow and now this wolf? I've never seen beings like these."

"We can't sit here and complain about it anyway," said Velia. She nodded toward the door. "Get out. Recuperate or whatever it is you all do. We'll figure out what to do tomorrow."

The Minions assembled in the room glanced at each other, hearing the order in her voice. Edmund released the hag from the wall, and they all grudgingly exited the throne room. Velia glanced at Mason, who nodded, taking the hint. He stood, padded to where Edmund was leaning against a stone column, nudged his muzzle against Edmund's knee, and stalked up the staircase.

Edmund straightened from his position to follow his friend up the stairs, but Velia's hand shot out to grab him. He turned toward her coolly, matching her unreadable expression. Her grip around his forearm tightened.

"You make quite a ferocious wolf."

He could not fathom why this girl vehemently reminded the Minions to address him by his formal title, but she steadfastly refused to do it herself. And what's worse was that he couldn't fathom why he continued to let her.

He shrugged out of her grasp, frowning. "In case it hasn't occurred to you, Velia, I'm _human_. I don't exactly scamper about on all fours and neither am I covered in fur."

Her face was carved in stone, but her eyes gleamed black fire. "The creatures you may lead are fools, but I am most certainly not."

Edmund shook his head, the corner of his lips turning up into a rueful smile. "I know you're no fool. A raging psychopath, yes, but never a fool."

"Then how do you explain that wolf, Edmund? Peter's personal bodyguards tend to fall under the half-man, half-horse variety. He doesn't run with wolves."

"Perhaps he developed a fondness for the species."

Shaking her head and sighing, Velia released his arm, choosing to cross her own over her chest instead. "I won't say a word about your allegiances—or apparent lack thereof—because I _understand_. You're guilty, regretful, and you miss your family. No one can blame you, but what I don't understand is why you continue to let us fight them. Why are you giving us orders to go to war? Why do you _verbally _acquiesce to the Minions' demands for your siblings' heads on platters?"

"Why do you care?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

She glared at him. "Because I refuse to be your pawn. I don't understand what you're planning or thinking, but I will not tolerate being led into a sabotaged battle."

He could only stare at her again.

"If you trust me enough to put your life in my hands, why can't you trust me with your plans?" she asked flatly.

Well, she certainly had a point.

After a few seconds' worth of mutual staring, Edmund finally relaxed. He rested his weight on one foot and tilted his head, studying her. "Whose side are you on?"

She didn't hesitate. "Yours."

Interesting.

"So if I ask you to make plans to assassinate my siblings but also to make sure that the plans cannot be carried out…"

Her arms dropped from her chest, settling her hands on her hips as she sighed up at the ceiling. She sucked on her teeth before meeting his gaze once more, shaking her head and then reaching up to rub the back of her neck. "Well, I suppose I should go formulate another attempt to kill your family and formulate another plan to make sure it doesn't happen without arousing suspicion within your troops."

And _his _allegiances are being questioned?

He nodded and stepped back, intending to end and leave this conversation and this accursed room, but she called out to him one last time.

"If you don't want to fight this war, why _are _you?"

He paused and regarded this strange woman with the strange affiliations and strange behavior. "Because I have to."

"You do realize you're essentially just fighting yourself, don't you?"

"Essentially, yes."


	11. The Saboteur

**11  
**_**The Saboteur**_

* * *

A minotaur bellowed in the distance as Susan reared back and rammed the heel of her boot into a wraith's face. She heard the distinctive _crack_ as the creature's skull shattered, and the monster itself dropped onto the ground. Twisting around and reaching over her shoulder, Susan fired five arrows at five different creatures in quick succession. She ducked as an axe flew through the air but smirked when she straightened up and immediately took down the troll that had thrown the weapon.

"Watch out!"

As soon as she spun to face her attacker, Velia backhanded her in the face, yanked the bow out of her hands, and tackled her off the edge of the cliff. They somersaulted in midair, and Velia flipped them over so she was the one to break Susan's fall when they hit the ground. The black-leathered warrior groaned and shoved Susan off now that none of the Minions could se them.

"The things I do for your lunatic brother," spat Velia, brushing grass off her back and continuing to grumble under her breath.

"What?!" Susan gasped, wrenching her bow out of Velia's grip and kicking the other girl away. "What are you jabbering about?!"

Velia hissed in pain and punched Susan in the arm—though not even hard enough to bruise. "Calm yourself, woman! I'm not trying to attack yo—okay, perhaps I _did_ attack you, but I'm not trying to _kill _you. I mean, despite my previous attempts, this is different, all right?"

"What?" Susan glared and reached behind to pull out an arrow, nock it, and aim it at Velia's throat, who only sighed, yanked the arrow away, and twirled it between her fingers.

"I'm _saying_ that my specific orders from your brother are to make it _seem_ like I'm attacking you."

Susan gawked at her. "Why in the world would he do that?"

Velia's incredulous look was almost physically painful. "Because you're _not_ siblings, and he _doesn't _care about you. I'm starting to believe the stupid comments and obvious questions are because of some idiotic family trait."

Susan opened her mouth to object, but Velia cut her off by clamping a hand over her mouth.

"All right, that may have been a tad offensive, but I need you to understand what I'm saying." Susan pushed Velia's hand and Velia herself away, but the darker-eyed girl wasn't finished. "I know it's not in your nature to obey the order of an enemy soldier, but _stay here_ until the battle is over. Make sure _no one_ sees you. I'm not going to plead or beg you to do this because this is _your_ life on the line. _I _have orders to stay my hand, but my comrades _don't_. So if you refuse to obey an order, I would then _strongly suggest_ that you _stay put_. Now I have to go make sure your older brother doesn't get killed. Excuse me."

* * *

Peter tore through creature after creature, ripping his sword through flesh and bone. There were _thousands_, but that was hardly any different from any other battle. What set _this_ skirmish apart from the rest was that they all seemed to coming after him in particular. Usually, the Witch's Minions were eager to cut down anything that got in their way, but this time, they all seemed to have a common goal: _him_.

He was practically _drowning_ in monsters, and though it shouldn't surprise him, it was highly unsettling that they all seemed to be gunning for him. The centaurs were stampeding through the hordes of cruels, ghouls, boggles, efreeti, ettins, specters, and various other monsters, but they just kept getting pushed back. It was like the monsters were swarming around Peter, and the Narnian troops were frantically trying to tear through to protect the eldest Pevensie.

Their new general—the black-haired girl in black leather—was nowhere to be found, and that, at least, gave Peter some peace. She was by far their most skilled warrior. By that point, though, Peter was desperately wishing that he'd gone up against her instead. His arms were tiring, his back and shoulders were aching, and he was already gasping for breath. He was a good warrior, but he was still human.

A wolf howled, the cry echoing across the battlefield. The cries of monsters rose into shrieks as they all pushed forward to Peter.

"It's the wolf!" bellowed a troll.

Snarling and ripping accompanied the terrified shrieks as a wolf the size of a bear rampaged through the horde of monsters, carving a path to Peter. It had grown since the last time Peter had seen the golden-eyed, black and silver wolf. Just as before, it bounded up to Peter, pressed its muzzle against the blond's chest, and turned to snarl at nearby monsters.

In less than a few minutes' time, the Witch's troops were retreating over the frozen waterfall and into the Shuddering Woods. Peter sheathed his sword before turning to the wolf. The big black beast was leisurely licking its muzzle as it lay sprawled out on the green grass under the sunlight and surrounded by the corpses it had ripped through.

"Where are you from?" asked Peter, rubbing the animal's head. "This is the second time you've shown up out of nowhere and managed to save the day just in the nick of time. Should I be bringing a bag of treats every time we go to war?"

The wolf opened its massive jaws and let its tongue loll out playfully.

Peter smiled. "You're liking that idea, eh? So what's your story? You my new guardian angel?"

The wolf barked once—an obvious _yes_.

"Well, thank you," said Peter.

The wolf clambered up to its feet, brushed against Peter, licked his face, and then bounded off toward the Dancing Lawn.

* * *

A long, curved sword poked into the tent and tore through the canvas. Velia's head poked into the infirmary and narrowly missed being sliced off by an axe.

"_Calm yourselves!_" she barked, deflecting another missile and stepped through the tear. "I'm not going to kill anyone here!"

The point of a knife dug into the side of Velia's throat. "So why _are_ you here?"

Velia turned to see the girl holding up the dagger. She sighed and lowered her sword. "I'm here to calmly and politely request that you and your friends please exit this tent and hide out in the cave a quarter of a mile from here."

Lucy pushed the knife harder against Velia's throat. _"Why?"_

Velia sighed _again_. "Would you rather I set fire to this tent while you're in it?"

"I mean, why are you letting us leave before you do that? What's the purpose of setting fire to the tent if no one's in it?" asked Lucy, relaxing her hand but still holding up the dagger.

It was a legitimate question.

Velia had tried to formulate a legitimate answer to it, but the only one she could come up with was:

"Because your brother told me to."

Of course, that only led to the typical question:

"What? Why would he do that? I don't understand."

"You Pevensies really don't hold much stock in your poor brother's priorities, do you?"

Lucy lowered the knife and took a step back, motioning to the wounded Narnians who'd jumped from their prone positions on cots and mats as they jumped to defend Lucy—regardless of the fact that some were missing limbs, eyes, clothes, and even weapons.

"He's fighting a _war_ against us," said Lucy, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Your brother made his mistakes, and he regrets it. But he's gotten himself caught up in something that he apparently cannot stop, and personally, I don't care what it is or what he's thinking. I have my orders, and I'm the type of person to carry them out."

"So what?" asked Lucy. "He's giving you orders to keep me safe, but he's ordered his army to kill us?"

Velia sighed wearily, sheathing her sword. "Brother dear is essentially fighting against himself."

"Is he all right?"

Velia paused and stared at the younger girl in complete shock. "I'm not here to have a nice, heartwarming conversation, sweetheart. I need you and your friends to _get out of here_. Immediately."

Lucy, the guards, and any of the other injured who still had the ability to walk and help another hobble along gathered up the more injured patients and shuffled out of the tent. Once they were all out, Velia addressed them one last time.

"All right, now I need you all to scream as if you were perishing in this fire."

* * *

She strode toward him, calm and cold in the midst of the raging battle. Blood glistened on her black leather and dripped down her long, curved sword. She bore no actual, visible scratches, and neither was there any tear or dent in her leather armor. The blood dripping from her had come from another—come from his _troops_. Though she gave the impression of coldness and indifference, he could see the fire in her dark eyes as she stared straight at him.

What was she doing? She'd spared both Susan and Lucy before. She went out of her way to protect them. Would she do the same for him or would she actually go through with the assassination? She'd told them she'd been under Edmund's orders to protect his sisters, but did he extend the same courtesy to his older brother?

The battle had begun almost an hour ago, and Edmund's army seemed more than eager to rip through the Narnians this time. It was because of their random burst of enthusiasm that even Peter himself had begun to grow weary. He nursed a deep scratch in his leg from a stray arrow, and the massive bruise on his back would mean extreme pain every time someone managed to knock him back.

He was afraid to know how his soldiers were faring. Their numbers were dwindling, but thankfully Aslan was able to constantly send reinforcement from wherever He'd been traveling through. But the loss far outweighed whatever they were gaining with these mindless battles. Truthfully, he could barely remember what they were even fighting for anymore.

Before, he'd fought to take back his little brother, but now that they were fighting Edmund himself…they were mostly _stalling_ rather than upholding some sort of code or belief. It's mostly been skirmishes and a few border squabbles rather than formal battles, but they were still wasting their time and their efforts.

He didn't want to continue to force fauns and centaurs and various other animals to fight nightmarish creatures who were more than willing to rip things apart for no reason. These were brutal beasts who were hell-bent on simply _destroying_. These monsters weren't fighting to conquer Narnia. They fought purely out of _bloodlust_.

And now he was about to face the young, beautiful girl who'd turned the disorganized mess of brutes into a real fighting force.

She gave him no offer of a bloodless surrender. He barely even blinked before she threw a dagger aimed right for his forehead. He ducked and jumped back just in time to dodge a horizontal slice from her sword. He jabbed, and she twisted out of range to punch him so hard that his helmet flew off. He staggered back a few steps, his ears ringing from the blow. She seized the opportunity and sliced at him so viciously that he had to drop onto the ground and roll away from her. She danced around, trying to stomp on him, but he wrapped a hand around her ankle and dragged her onto the ground with him. He threw himself on top of her and aimed a punch to her face. She jerked her head out of the way so his knuckles slammed into the ground. She lifted her knee to ram it into his armored stomach, forcing him off her. They both scrambled up to their feet, eyes locked as they grabbed their swords off the ground.

They paused for a full three seconds, swords braced in anticipation. A giant roared, breaking the spell. Velia and Peter charged. Their swords clashed as they both danced around each other. He was strong and quick. She was stronger and quicker.

He was fading _fast_.

His soldiers were to preoccupied trying to keep the monsters from stabbing Peter in the back (or neck, arm, leg, etc.), so they couldn't help him. He was in this battle alo—

A wolf howled—long, loud, and furious.

Velia shoved Peter away and whirled in the direction that the wolf's howl came from. Then she grinned and muttered, _"Finally."_

Narnians and Minions alike dove out of range of the claws of the massive black and silver wolf as it launched into the battlefield, sprinting toward Peter. It tore between two ogres who weren't quick enough to dodge it, effectively disemboweling both monsters without even a sideways glance. As soon as it came face-to-face with Velia, neither wolf nor woman hesitated before hurtling into a ferocious battle that would forever remembered as one of the most vicious sights Narnia had ever seen.

Velia and the wolf nearly tore each other apart. For two entirely different creatures, they were so evenly matched that neither could gain the upper hand for longer than a millisecond. The wolf would growl, snap, and attempt to bite off Velia's foot, but she'd slip out of its way and almost manage to slice off a strip of the wolf's flesh. As if sensing her exact movements, the wolf would maneuver its way out of its compromising position so that Velia could only manage to shave off a few inches of the animal's long, thick black fur.

When she pulled out a small dagger from inside her boot, the wolf aimed a particularly vicious claw swipe at her that forced her to drop to the ground and roll under the animal. Seizing the opportunity, the wolf dipped its head and tried to snap and bite at any part of her it could reach. Somehow, though, she still managed to dodge its attacks and kick it so hard that the enormous animal flew back ten feet, bowling over a nasty skirmish between fauns, bears, efreeti, and hags.

The wolf clambered up to its feet and roared at the nearest Minion and swatted the ghoul out of its way. Many of the monsters were obviously itching to leap into a fight with the wolf, but with the harsh glare that the animal leveled across the field, no soul was foolish enough to dare. Velia pulled herself back up, sword in hand as she grinned expectantly for the battle to begin anew. In less than a few seconds' time, she and the wolf rushed back at each other, but this time, Peter noticed a distinct change in the fight.

He didn't know if anyone else noticed it either, as they were mostly absorbed in their own fights. Yet there it was. For anyone who'd ever participated in proper training, they would see the subtle mistakes Velia was making. Peter himself had gotten very well-acquainted with Velia's skills, so he could tell she was regressing. She wasn't necessarily getting tired or clumsy; it was like she was purposefully turning a blind eye to some of the wolf's moves that caused her to receive a scratch or a very near miss. They continued to dance around each other until she made either a very stupid mistake or a blatant sign that the battle was staged: instead of moving to the left to dodge a powerful blow from the wolf's paw, she stepped to the right.

The willowy young woman flew back and landed in a crumpled heap some twenty meters away, hidden between two fallen trees. The wolf leaned its head back and howled into the sky again before spinning around to glare at each and every Minion in the vicinity who'd stopped fighting to stare at the animal that had bested their general.

"Retreat!" an incubus shrieked, abandoning his scythe and leaping over two cheetahs in his frantic attempt to escape.

His orders were quickly echoed throughout the rest of the Minions who all seemed to be just as eager to get away now that Velia herself had been taken down. The monsters who weren't able to run off fast enough were quickly cut down by nearby Narnian soldiers. The ones who actually managed to tear through the Narnians swiftly disappeared over the River Shribble and into Ettinsmoor.

The wolf ignored the retreating monsters, passed Peter, and headed straight for the unconscious general. All of the Narnians thought the animal would simply finish off one of the most major threats of Edmund's army, but from Peter's vantage point, that wasn't what happened. Had Velia landed in a more open area, everyone would've seen that the wolf gently nudged and licked the fallen warrior back into consciousness.

Peter stood still as he watched the two interact.

Velia stirred and lifted her hand to pat the wolf's nose inconspicuously. Satisfied that its "enemy" survived its bone-crunching blow, the wolf shimmied and shifted so that it nudged Velia onto its back and scampered deeper into the Owlwood Forest in the direction of the old battlefields between the Witch's and Aslan's old camps.


	12. The Talk

**12  
**_**The Talk**_

* * *

Velia strolled into the study, unhooking her sword from her belt before dramatically collapsing onto the settee. She sprawled out so her head rested on the cushion, propped up against the arm of the sofa while her legs draped over the arm.

"You may be the alleged _king _of a legion of _idiots_," she drawled, her voice a gravelly mixture of tiredness and dry humor, "but I don't think we can keep this charade up fro much longer. I can only sabotage my own assassination attempts so many times before one of the Minions starts getting suspicious.

Edmund sighed, leaning into the high-backed chair and folding his hands together on his lap. She was right, of course. He'd actually expected her to have brought this up a while ago.

"And I don't know how much more my dignity can take," she continued when Edmund didn't seem inclined to respond. "The Minions are giving me these disappointed looks as if I've completely regressed. You should've seen some of their faces when your wolf knocked me aside."

She undid the straps of her leather armor so she could breathe a little easier as she continued her tirade. Edmund was content to just sit and let her rant.

"An army is only as good as its general, Edmund," she reminded him as she tossed the chest armor to the side and began to work on undoing her boots. "If they stop believing that I'm still the vicious psychopath who will gleefully rip off limbs for no reason, then they'll start straying from orders."

She tossed one boot next to the chest armor and folded her other leg to undo the second boot, grimacing as it stressed her tired muscles.

"Unfortunately, you have three siblings. If a party of Minions decides to break off and try their hands—or claws, whatever their appendages—in their own assassination attempt, I might not be there to save whomever their mark is if I'm to preoccupied trying to keep another Pevensie from coming to harm. And, frankly, as fun as it is to be fighting a war against yourself—like playing a very lonely game of chess—we can only do this so many times."

After finally managing to pull off her boot, she dropped it to the floor, pulled off her thick socks, and then wiggled her toes in relief. Edmund suppressed his amused smile.

"I'm actually quite surprised we managed to have kept this up for three years. You should be very thankful we've only had four real, formal battles—not counting border squabbles and small skirmishes. Though four times is enough. If we try and do any repeats, you're going to have a mutiny on your hands. Wait, I think mutiny is a nautical term, isn't it? A coup, then? Whatever the term may be, that is what you'd be facing."

Edmund finally unclasped his hands and whispered an incantation to conjure up two plates of food. He levitated one of the platters and sent it Velia's way, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks before he lobbed some cutlery at her.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

"How adverse are you to the concept of surrender?" she asked casually, spearing a potato with her fork.

He narrowed his eyes and didn't deign to respond.

"I've been hearing rumors," she said through a mouthful of food. "Many are saying Aslan is returning. They say He's managed to find a way to defeat you."

Edmund paused, a spoonful of food halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"This way may be drawing to a close sooner than you anticipated," she said unaffectedly.

"What are you saying then? Should we _actually_ try to assassinate someone this time so that any hope of fulfilling that prophecy will be killed with whatever sibling is the mark?"

Velia rolled her eyes and popped a scallop into her mouth. "If you're really set on carrying out the Witch's wishes and make yourself an only child, then by all means, give the order. I was simply going to say that perhaps Aslan's way of 'defeating' you is some sort of euphemism for helping you deal with whatever little problem you're having."

He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

She set the plate on her lap, and Edmund braced himself, a fist on the table and the other at his chin. "That Lion may have killed the Witch, but it's obvious that He's not intending on making you follow the same path. Your siblings would make sure of that as well. They obviously have noticed how different you look from them now that you're under the Witch's influence, so if they haven't figured out you're under a curse, then stupidity really _does_ run in Pevensie blood. But since I'm going to continue to give you all the benefit of the doubt, I would say that they've spent the last few years trying to find some way to lift the Witch's curse on you. And if you correctly interpret the rumors, it seems that Aslan may have finally found a way to do so."

He narrowed his eyes, and she replied with a longsuffering look.

"Assuming that Aslan went off to find you a magical counter-curse really isn't an inconceivable idea. Really, Edmund, I don't understand you sometimes. For such a good strategist, you can be quite dense."

He scowled at her before turning back to his food. "Where exactly did you hear these rumors from?"

"A couple of ghouls and incubi heard from the trees near the River Rush, who heard it from a few fauns on border patrol."

For a few seconds, Edmund found himself smirking as he recalled what he'd told Lucy all those years ago: _"Fauns will say anything to hold the attention of an audience, you know—notorious for embellishment and lies."_ And then his paranoia rose to the occasion, banishing old memories and causing him to seriously contemplate whether or not the fauns had been lying to mislead his forces.

"Whatever the curse may be," he finally said, rubbing his hands down his face, "how can He find a counter-curse to a curse He doesn't even know about?"

Velia cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "Since you seem to have forgotten, let me remind you of one small-yet-crucial detail: _He's Aslan._"

"For someone who hates that Lion so much, you seem to hold much stock in His abilities," said Edmund, eyeing her critically.

If Velia rolled her eyes one more time, Edmund swore he'd throw something at her. "When have I ever said that I hated Aslan? And of course I hold stock in His abilities—look at what He did to the Witch. He _breathed_ on her, and she shriveled like burnt paper. I don't _hate _Aslan; I simply know of Him—of his power. Hating someone can cloud perspective to the point of distorting your opponent's abilities. It's never wise to underestimate your enemies. No one thought the Witch could be defeated, but look at how swiftly he dispatched her."

"I shattered her wand," said Edmund.

"Regardless," countered Velia. "The Witch didn't need the wand to have power. You should know better than anyone the extent of her powers."

Edmund's temper flared. "And why would you say that?"

She gave him a strange look. "Because you trained with her…?"

Edmund sagged and leaned back against his chair, drumming his fingers on the table.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Velia. "Did you try one of the Witch's old potions again?"

"No, no. I learned my lesson the first three times it happened," muttered Edmund, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm just…tired of this war."

"Well, considering you've been at it for the last eight years, I can imagine why," she mumbled through a mouthful of fish. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What _can_ I do about it?" he shot back incredulously.

"Honestly? Leave."

He turned to look at her and was completely taken aback when he saw she was serious.

She shrugged. "You keep insisting that Mason and I should prevent your death at all costs, and what better way to do that than by running? The longer you fight this war, the higher the chance your death will occur. The prophecy is essentially thwarted since you're not with your siblings anyway, so why do you still bother?"

"I can't run. I'm _magically_ bound to command the army. I _cannot_ leave the war."

Velia shook her head slowly, chewing on another scallop. "I'm not going to bother asking."

"It's part of the Witch's curse—"

She cut him off. "Then why won't you let Aslan lift it for you?"

Edmund shook his head in dismissal. "No. Whatever He's going to try will only result in my death—"

"Which is a very, very bad thing that you still refuse to tell me about," she interrupted him again. "Your death itself would already be a very bad and sad ordeal; why _else _would it be so horrible?"

"You don't need to—"

She threw her boot at him. He ducked at the last moment, and it soared over his head. He turned back and glared at her, ready to launch into a shouting match, but she beat him to the punch.

"Yes, actually, I _do_ need to know because just in case I fail my task and you manage to end up dead, I need to know what to expect," she hissed, eyes blazing black fire. "And don't tell me that I need to just _trust you_ because it's high time you trust me back. I've proven I can be trusted because I've had _four_ opportunities to kill your brother and sisters, and I _haven't_.

"You wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it anyway," said Edmund, rubbing his hands up and down his face again.

"You can't say or know that for certain because you haven't _told_ me."

"I know _Aslan_ can't help me so how can _you_ be able to do that?"

"Why do you keep insisting that your future is hopeless? Why has it become _fait accompli_ to you? As far as _you_ know, you can't be saved, but if you don't share your burden, you essentially sign your own death warrant."

"There aren't any loopholes to this, Velia! Once the curse has been cast, it cannot be lifted! There can only be one outcome; the Witch made sure of that! All the knowledge you need is this: _you cannot let me die._"

Velia's lips thinned into a straight line as she slowly set her plate on the table next to the settee and clasped her hands together, resting her elbows on her knees. "Why?" she asked. "_Why?_ And don't you keep telling me that it'd just be some bad outcome or some unpleasant nightmare, Edmund, because I will show you bad outcomes and unpleasant nightmares. Give me a tangible answer."

He sighed. "Velia, I can't—"

"I don't understand why you refuse to tell me. Does it involve words that would melt my brain if I'm not meant to hear it?"

Edmund could only take a deep breath and a loud exhale. He fixed his eyes on a crack in the frosty wall in front of him. "Velia, where are you from?"

She blinked. "What?"

"I've tried to glean your origins from eavesdropping on conversations, on trying to steer subjects to illuminate your past, on various other strategies to subtly have you talking about who you are and where you're from, but you somehow manage to derail or deflect the conversation, so I never get any answers," he replied.

"I know how _that_ feels," she muttered pointedly, scowling.

"Tell me where you come from, and I'll tell you what will happen," said Edmund resignedly.

He met her hard stare with a steady one of his own until she took a deep breath and pushed herself up to her feet. She broke eye contact and crossed the room, disappearing between the bookcases. It was two minutes before she returned with a thin, red volume and a blank expression. She walked to his desk but hesitated as she held it out to him. It was barely noticeable—so much so that Edmund almost didn't notice. But then she tossed it onto the desk before dropping back down onto the settee and picking her plate up again.

He watched her focus on her food, almost telepathically urging her to talk instead of forcing him to read. When she continued to ignore him, he looked down and realized he didn't even have to open the book.

"_Fire spirits?"_

She made no indication that she heard him or even noticed that he'd looked at the book.

"But they've vanished," Edmund muttered, as if trying to rationalize. "The air and water spirits are shy themselves, but there hasn't been a fire spirit sighting in years—not since the Vasceris Forest was razed, effectively making the entire Vasceran race…"

He looked up from his study of the cover to see her clenched jaw and the sadness in her eyes that was so tangible he was afraid her eyes might shatter from the force of it all.

"…extinct."

"Apparently not as extinct as everyone thought," she said softly. "My brother and I managed to escape, but…"

Edmund pushed himself out of his seat, walked around the desk, and sat next to her.

The Vascerans were forest-dwellers—humanlike in appearance, like the Telmarines—who lived in the wide, hollowed-out trunks of the strong Vasceris trees. The firestorm that reduced the once-magnificent woodland was shrouded in speculation and rumors. Many say that the fire spirits were unbelieving of the strength and durability of the wood of the Vasceris trees and simply set the forest ablaze out of spite. Others say it had simply been an accident of the fire spirits'.

Whatever the reason had been, its result had been the complete and utter annihilation of the forest-dwelling people.

"My brother died of smoke inhalation not long after. I was four."

"Where did you go?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.

"Wandered Narnia," she answered. "Found people to take me, but never for more than a few years at a time. I've been training ever since."

He raised an eyebrow. "Did you…plan to exact revenge on _fire spirits_ who essentially went into hiding because of the heavy burden of guilt that they killed off an entire race? That's impossible."

She shrugged dismissively.

_And thus marked the beginning of her madness_, he thought to himself, finally putting the puzzle pieces together to explain her mental instability.

"If your fight is with the fire spirits, why were you so eager to join the Witch's army? Why didn't you just go off in search of the spirits?"

She rolled her eyes, and only Edmund's compassion for her plight stayed his hand. "_Fire_ spirits. _Ice _queen. My logic is sound."

"You wanted to do what? Convince the Witch to freeze the forests and eradicate the fire spirits?"

Velia blinked and shrugged. "I figured she'd wind up doing that anyway."

Edmund shook his head and set the desk on the table. Hers was a well-known story: vengeance. But there was still something about this girl that Edmund couldn't figure out—something she wasn't saying. Not that she'd said much in the first place. She'd _technically_ answered his questions, but her responses were too…_broad_, too _vague_, too _general_, and not good enough for him. However, he knew better than to push her. He'd already tested her limits for the night, he wouldn't risk possible dismemberment just to glean more answers from her. He would try again another time.

"Now," said Velia loudly, patting her thighs and leaning back into the sofa, "tell me what will happen if you die."

Edmund grimaced and shook his head. He could feel her eyes burning holes in the side of his head, but he refused to flinch away. He was almost _eighteen_, for goodness sake. A man wouldn't shy away from a slender girl…

…who'd hacked off her own finger out of desperation, but chopped off her own hand simply to prove a meaningless point.

Edmund exhaled a long, slow breath before finally answering her. "The Witch didn't put a _curse_ on me. She put part of her own spirit in me. As soon as I die, she'll take over my body, more powerful than ever before."


	13. The Observer

**13  
**_**The Observer**_

* * *

The Grand Hall was silent except for the chirping birds in the garden right outside. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows on either side of the walkway, casting colorful hues across the pale cream floor. One solitary figure ghosted down the hall, her movements never making a sound.

She walked with an air of power, grace, and sadness. In the same way that people would bow their heads in reverence when a funeral procession passed, the Narnians would also fall silent and bow their heads when she walked by. They did not fear her, but neither were they bold enough to directly address her. Unlike the enemy, the Narnians knew that underneath that mask of strength was a brokenness that only a handful of creatures had ever suffered.

The Red Shadow was known under various names—the Fire Demon, the Ghost, and even the Red Witch—but only one truly described her role within the Narnian ranks: the Observer. She never spoke; she merely stood and watched as the generals and the Pevensies and Aslan discussed battle strategies and plans. She never volunteered an idea, and it seemed that she only communicated through gestures—and even those were only ever directed at Aslan. There were speculations that she was mute, but she never said a word to confirm or deny it.

Yet on that particular day, as the Red Shadow slipped into the Grand Library, all eyes swiveled onto her. Peter, Susan, Lucy, and the two centaur generals, Bastion and Saryo, stared and waited for one of two particular gestures: a nod or a shake of the head.

It was the latter.

Peter ran raked his fingers through his thick, honey-blonde hair as Susan slumped into a chair. Lucy looked crestfallen, but she tried her best not to completely crumple as the two centaurs' frowns deepened as they adopted twin pensive expressions. The Shadow's eyes suddenly darted to the double balcony doors where Aslan stood, staring out into the ocean. He had His back to the room, but the Shadow knew that the Lion's attention was focused on exactly what was being said behind Him. Tearing her eyes from the Lion, the Shadow moved off to the side and froze at attention like a red leather-clad statue.

"It's hopeless then," Peter muttered distractedly. "We know the curse will kill him if we let him be, and we're fairly certain that the curse will kill him if we try and help him. We've got no way out of this."

"We still have to _try_," Lucy insisted. "We can't just leave him. He's our brother."

Susan's voice was soft, but her words slapped against her sister's face. "We don't know if he's really our brother anymore, Lu."

The younger girl spun, her eyes flashing in anger. Even now at the age of sixteen, she remained a staunch supporter of her brother's good nature even though her two eldest siblings were beginning to waver.

"You don't know that he's _not_ either!" she protested.

"We don't know _anything_ anymore!" Susan shot back. "Yes, we know for a fact that he's under some sort of spell, but we don't know _how much_ of Edmund is actually left. He could be fully corrupted at this point!"

"So what are you saying? We should just kill him and be done with it?!" Lucy demanded, jumping to her feet and glaring at her sister.

Susan's eyes flashed in anger before she stood and turned to glare out the window. It was clear that she turned away from the argument purely because she was afraid of her own answer.

"Velia," Lucy barked, making everyone in the room jump. "That black and silver wolf."

"What _about_ them?!" Susan demanded, whipping her head around to glare at her sister.

"They are living proof that there is still enough of good in Edmund to be saved, Susan!" Lucy cried. "These pseudo-assassination attempts show that he still cares about us!"

"You know what's a better way to show that he cares? _Ending this bloody war!_ He's holding a sword at our throats, Lucy. He's not stabbing us, but neither is he dropping it!"

Lucy groaned in exasperation and opened her mouth to argue, but she was interrupted by Aslan walking in through the balcony doors.

"It's the curse, Susan," Aslan stated. "It forces him to carry out the Witch's orders—even beyond her death. It must take a great deal of cunning and willpower on his part to skirt around and find loopholes around his orders so he can protect all of you."

Lucy shot her sister a triumphant look. The anger in Susan's eyes dissipated, but her expression was still defeated.

"How much longer until the curse completely takes a hold of him, Aslan?" Susan asked wearily. "How much longer until his pseudo-assassination attempts turn into _real_ attempts?"

"For as long as he keeps fighting it, it could be decades," the Lion answered, "but if he begins to lose hope, it could be a mere matter of day."

His amber gaze swept across the room and landed on the Red Shadow. His eyes lingered for a few seconds, and the Shadow gave an imperceptible nod in reply.

"So what are we supposed to do? Send him encouraging notes? _'Hang in there, Ed!'_ If he doesn't throw them into the fire upon delivery, he probably wouldn't listen to us anyway," Susan muttered derisively.

"Susan's right," Peter said quietly.

The betrayed expression on Lucy's face made him backtrack.

"I mean, she's right about the notes," he said, stumbling over his words slightly. "What we said to Edmund hardly mattered to him before all this started; it wouldn't matter to him now. We're running around in circles to the point where this is bordering on complete pointlessness. Edmund is fighting for the sake of fighting, and we're just here to keep him from tearing apart this entire country."

"Instead of dwelling on the situation, perhaps we should try to find a solution?" Bastion prompted, eager to keep the Pevensies from any further arguments.

"Yes, one that doesn't involve _killing our brother_ to put him out of his misery," Lucy said pointedly, glowering at her sister.

"I already know what to do," Aslan said.

Everyone stared at the Lion eagerly, but He didn't seem inclined to divulge His plans.

"What are we going to do?" Lucy asked, being the only one brave enough to pry.

Aslan didn't hesitate to respond, but His answer wasn't exactly the details of His plan. "The Witch used a very old, arcane spell to bind a portion of her life essence with Edmund's. It gave him a portion of her powers, giving him the ability to perform magic, but it essentially functioned as a set of puppet strings so the Witch could literally control him. He was, for all intents and purposes, the Witch's puppet.

"But the Witch overestimated her own abilities. For magic of that magnitude, it would have taken _much_ more power than the Witch could have supplied, so the spell was flawed. She had control over Edmund, yes, but only to an extent. That is why Edmund was able to fight her—why he was able to shatter the Witch's wand during the battle three years ago. When she died, the spell was supposed to let the Witch's spirit possess Edmund's body, but since it was flawed, your brother is still somewhat in control of his body."

"That sounds promising enough," Lucy said hopefully, but Aslan wasn't finished.

"But no matter how valiantly Edmund fights against the Witch's control, the small portion of the Witch's life force is leeching onto Edmund's and will eventually consume him. If the Witch's spirit isn't pulled out of him in time, your brother will be lost forever."

"Well, now I'm overflowing with hope," Susan muttered.

Peter shot her a withering glare before turning back to Aslan. "What are you planning to do?"

The Great Lion's gaze swept the room, making eye contact with every creature inside until His amber eyes locked with the Red Shadow's. Their silent stares held for three seconds, but a brief conversation was exchanged between the two. The Shadow gave the most infinitesimal nod, and Aslan turned back to Peter.

"I'm going to save your brother."

The three Pevensies blinked simultaneously, but it was Saryo who spoke up.

"How, Master?" the centaur asked.

Only Bastion seemed to understand what Aslan was doing. "Perhaps the question that should be asked is _what_ we can do to _help_?"

Aslan nodded at the darker centaur who bowed his head slightly. "All I need from all of you is trust."

Lucy stepped forward immediately to affectionately run her fingers through the Lion's mane. "Always, Aslan."

"We trust you," Susan conceded.

"So we will wait for you?" Peter asked.

Aslan turned his head to look out the windows. "Yes. I will be leaving in an hour's time. I will be setting up camp near the Fords of Beruna and the Stone Table. I will send instructions for you all when I arrive at my destination. For now, prepare a room here for when I return."

The Pevensies blinked simultaneously. In all the years they'd been with Aslan, the Lion had never slept in any of the rooms. In fact, the only rooms He'd ever actually been in were the library, the throne room, the dining room, and the Grand Hall.

Aslan blinked once to Lucy who nodded and turned to tow Susan out of the library, probably to set up the room Aslan had requested.

Peter's eyes followed his sisters' progress until the two girls finally disappeared out the door.

"You're going to bring Edmund back here, aren't you?" the eldest Pevensie asked. "How do you expect to lift Edmund's curse with his entire army standing in your way. I understand that you can plow through them, but it would still be difficult, Aslan. If you give me time, I can organize an attack to distract the troops while you can go up to Ed—"

"No, Son of Adam," Aslan interrupted. Despite His hushed tone, the authoritative ring still rumbled in His voice. "My business does not lie in the Witch's castle. Do not dwell on what I plan to do tonight. I suggest you study your battle plans with Saryo."

When Peter's frown deepened, Aslan sighed. "The war isn't over yet. The worst is still to come. Now go with Bastion and Saryo."

When Peter finally turned and followed the two centaur generals out of the library, Aslan turned to the Red Shadow.

"Write this letter exactly how I dictate it, young one."

* * *

"...the army—and _only_ the army—out to the Stone Table in three day's time when the full moon is high in the sky," Edmund read aloud.

He looked at the Red Shadow who was calmly standing in the middle of a wide circle of Minions.

Edmund rolled up the letter once more and frowned down at the creature in front of him. He could still feel the pain and heat of each blow she had inflicted on him from that first battle. It seemed like it had been decades ago when, in fact, it had only been three years.

He itched to demand to know exactly _why_ his army was invited out to the Stone Table—why _he_ was specifically told not to accompany his army to that ancient monument. Only a fool would send his _entire_ bloody army out to meet the Great Lion of the East out in that deserted stone slab. The Lion could very well slaughter his entire army, and then where would he be?

And where in heaven's name is Velia?!

"Mason, find Velia!" Edmund hissed to the big black wolf at his side.

"Master, she stormed out after your little argument earlier," Mason reminded him quietly.

Edmund sighed and kept himself from slapping his own forehead. One second they're spilling their secrets to each other, and in the next, they're screaming at each other so viciously that cutlery was two seconds away from being wielded as weapons.

Thankfully the girl had enough presence of mind to stomp out of the room threatening decapitation to anyone who even _thought_ to follow her and ask her if she was all right. She'd been seriously debating stabbing her butter knife into Edmund's arm—she knew which major arteries to avoid so that the blood loss was minimal—so she deemed it best that she leave before she decided to act on her thoughts.

Edmund turned back to the Red Shadow who continued to meet his cold, hard glare. The letter felt as heavy as lead in his hand as he weighed his options.

If the Lion was telling the truth, then the Minions could go out to the Stone Table and kill Him. If He was lying, then the Minions would be ambushed and slaughtered—especially if the Red Shadow would be in attendance.

"Why _exactly_ is the Lion doing this?" Edmund asked the Shadow warily.

The Shadow's eyes narrowed, and she motioned to the letter as if the answer was obvious.

Edmund ran his hand through his hair exasperatedly. "I _know_ He intends to make a deal to end this war, but why would He make a deal with _my army_ and not _with me_?"

The Red Shadow—for the very first time since she donned the red leather—rolled her eyes. Then she briskly stepped forward, causing the army around her to contract closer around her. She shot Edmund a pointed glare, and he motioned for the Minions to stand down.

She cleared the distance between Edmund and herself and reached out to grip Edmund's right bicep—placing her gloved fingers right on top of the tattoo under his sleeve. Her black eyes bore into his before she nodded once and then stepped back.

So Velia was right. The Lion actually thought He's found a counter curse.

"You can go ahead and tell your Master that we will not be able to acquiesce to His request," Edmund said coldly, mentally congratulating himself for his vocabulary and wishing Velia had been here to hear that he wasn't as stupid as she claimed he was.

"Master?"

"What, Mason?" Edmund hissed.

The wolf nudged him to the side, away from the Red Shadow. They ducked into a little niche, out of earshot from the rest of the creatures who's assembled in the Grand Hall when the Red Shadow had arrived.

"Master, perhaps we should see what the Lion has planned. We can set up camp nearby, and you can cast a protection spell over the army if you fear an ambush. And _Velia_ will be there; I'm sure of it."

It was embarrassing, really, that everyone in the castle knew exactly how much Edmund relied on the girl.

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't care about an ambush; I care about the fact that the Lion is going to try and lift my curse."

Mason frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Isn't that a..._good_ thing?"

Edmund narrowed his eyes. "If He lifts the spell, I will die, and remember what I said about me dying?"

The big black wolf blinked once and shrugged. "As soon as Velia returns, you know what she'll say."

"I don't care what Velia says!" Edmund blurted out. "_I'm_ the king; you follow _my_ orders!"

Mason smirked, and his tongue lolled out in amusement. "Yes, _I_ follow _your_ orders, but _you_ always seem to heed Velia's _suggestions_. That girl has such power over you that we should just crown her your Queen and be done with it."

Edmund paled and then blushed a crimson red in quick succession. He managed to keep from spluttering in disbelief.

"We will _not_ be going to the Stone Table," Edmund growled through his teeth, "no matter what Velia says. The Lion is only going to make things worse for _everyone_—yes, the Minions included."

Mason reverted back to seriousness. "I didn't hold much stock in the Lion's abilities, Edmund, but past experience leads me to advise you to perhaps take a chance on Him."

"Whose bloody side are you on?!"

Mason rolled his eyes. "Just because we fight against the Beast doesn't mean one cannot appreciate His capabilities. Your brother is a skilled fighter, but I'm not on his side in this war. _Know thy enemy_, correct?"

"Yes, yes, the Lion is quite powerful, but I know my problems, Mason," Edmund said wearily. "My curse cannot be lifted."

The smirk returned. "We'll see what Velia says when she returns."

He swished his tail and bounded back to the Red Shadow. "Stay within the vicinity. We'll send you our answer tonight when our general returns."

The Shadow nodded and vanished in a wisp of smoke.

* * *

"This was a horrible idea!"

"And yet here we are."

Edmund and Velia watched as the Minions moved out of the camp, heading southeast to the Stone Table. They'd cross the Fords of Beruna before nightfall and reach the Stone Table before moon high.

"I don't care about the Minions themselves, but I need an army, Velia. You _will_ watch over them?"

The girl sighed and patted her black stallion, Whitefang, on the neck affectionately. "Of course. Who else am I going to slaughter when I'm irritated with you?"

Edmund glared up at her, and she winked and rode off to lead the Minions.

"This was horrible idea," Edmund muttered, stomping back into his tent.

"And yet Velia _still_ managed to convince you to come," Mason chuckled.

A battalion of Minions remained with Edmund, but it did nothing to assuage his fears. If that Lion actually does manage to make Edmund's bad situation worse, Edmund was relying on Velia to clean up the mess. But since she was off with the Minions...

Edmund raked his hands through his hair and paced the diameter of his tent as Mason followed his movements worriedly.

The young Son of Adam was quite a complicated case, but the wolf knew that his worries were not baseless. Despite the fact that Edmund was the Witch's successor, his heart lay with the Narnian troops. Though _why_ he was fighting against his siblings was beyond Mason.

Whatever the young man's reasons, he was right to be worried. Something lay thick in the air—Mason could _taste_ it.

It had saturated the air of the castle when Edmund had arrived, it hung in the air of the battlefields after the Witch's death, and it clung to his fur now.

_Magic._

* * *

Only two rows of torchlight illuminated the walkway toward the Stone Table. The moonlight itself seemed to shy away from area as the wind did little to disperse the heaviness of the atmosphere.

The crows had reported no Narnians hiding behind, in, or on top of trees, so Aslan had been telling the truth that He would come alone. Despite the excited murmurs of the prospect of an easy kill, the Minions were subdued as they stayed within their ranks, separating the Great Lion from the huge slab of rune-decorated rock that was the Stone Table.

Velia sat atop Whitefang as she glared down at where Aslan stood in front of her. She and the Minions had ridden up to the ancient site where the torches had already been lit. As soon as the army came to a complete stop, Aslan had appeared behind them.

"Why are we here?" she asked coldly. Her black eyes reflected the flames of the torches on either side of the Lion.

"You are here to negotiate a deal," Aslan answered, unaffected by the girl's hostile tone. "Edmund Pevensie will return to his siblings in Cair Paravel while you will ride back to the Witch's castle with your King."

The excited murmurs of the Minions turned into cries of confusion.

"You've lost your mind," Velia scoffed, as she leaned back with one hand on Whitefang's rump. "Absolutely _lost _your mind."

Aslan didn't respond as he nudged a small rolled-up satchel toward her with his paw. Velia shot him a wary glance before unsheathing her sword and spearing the satchel and bringing it up to herself. She unlaced the opening and reached in to pull out the broken pieces of the Witch's wand.

Shock rippled through the rows of Minions as Velia held a big piece up for all of them to see.

"You expect us to give up Edmund for a _broken stick_?" Velia laughed as she turned back to Aslan. "Did you run into a giant boulder and knock out some of your senses when you took that three-year vacation?"

A few Minions were bold enough to laugh while the rest of them tittered unsurely.

"Call forward one of your witch-hags," Aslan said calmly. "She will summon your Queen."

The laughter immediately ceased as confusion returned in full-force.

Velia rolled her eyes and scoffed, replacing the broken wand in the satchel and tossing it back at Aslan's feet.

"This was a complete waste of time," she scoffed. Then she turned to the Minions and barked, "Move out!"

A furious roar knocked her off Whitefang and blew back the first few rows of Minions who had he bad luck to be standing nearby.

"Call forth a witch-hag to summon the White Witch," Aslan snarled as the flames in the torches flared threateningly.

Velia jumped to her feet and pointed at a particularly vicious-looking hag. She jumped back onto Whitefang as the hag stepped out of the ranks and slowly moved toward Aslan.

Aslan let out a low rumble of a growl that resonated around the site as the hag took tentative steps to retrieve the satchel. The ugly creature practically leaped backward as soon as her claws hooked around the leather bag.

Aslan jerked his head toward the Stone Table on the other side of the army, and the witch-hag didn't hesitate before skirting around the army and the Stone Table to face the two tall, stone columns behind the ancient platform. Reverently, the witch-hag pulled out the shards of the Witch's wand and poked them into the dirt in a small circle.

She stood inside the circle and lifted her hands to the sky. She began to whisper, and torches flickered as the gentle night breeze turned into steadily-growing violent gusts. The condensation in the grass slowly slithered up the columns and froze into a solid fifteen-meter wall of ice. The temperature dropped significantly as the witch-hag chanted louder and louder, the wind battering the torches until only small, blue flames were left to struggle to survive.

Suddenly, the image of the White Witch bloomed into the ice like some sharp, white flower blossoming open. Her hair and clothes drifted around her as if she was floating underwater. The witch-hag shrieked one last chant before crumpling onto the ground—dead.

The Minions clamored over each other, shrieking in mixtures of fear, excitement, and confusion. Whitefang reared back on his haunches in shock, and Velia quickly reigned him in, murmuring in his ear to soothe him as the Witch smiled at her evilly.

"I'm glad to see that my choice to let you in my forces paid off, girl," the Witch said to Velia proudly.

The girl did nothing but stare back at the Witch impassively. The dead queen opened her mouth to speak again, but her eyes landed on Aslan. The Witch's eyes widened, and a small smile appeared on her face. The slab of ice and the Great Lion were still a good thirty meters away, but the tension was heavy in the air.

"What is this?" she breathed. "Are all my dreams coming true? Has the Great Lion come to die at my feet?"

Velia's eyes widened, and the Minions' shrieking intensified. Aslan remained stoic as He faced the Witch's image.

"Your _dream_ comes with a price," He pointed out firmly.

Velia didn't miss the almost-imperceptible way the Witch flinched back from Aslan.

"What's your price?" she asked softly, the corners of her mouth still turned up in a small smile.

"Edmund Pevensie."

The Witch threw her head back and laughed, her hair fanning out at her movement. "Oh, you fool. Edmund is _mine_ and neither your death nor his will change that. The only way you can have him back is if you split the boy in two."

Her smile vanished as realization dawned as everyone else continued to watch the exchange in sheer confusion.

"You're going to sacrifice yourself to split the boy in two?" the Witch muttered disbelievingly.

A dwarf made the unfortunate decision to speak up. "Why don't you just rip him apart now? Why does someone have to die to do it? I can use my axe to—"

"You put that axe _anywhere_ near him, fool, and be sure that I'll use it to hack your head off to use as a ball to kick around," Velia hissed, causing the black-bearded creature to pale and duck behind one of his comrades because they'd all seen her do it before.

"Do we have a deal or not?" Aslan growled up at the Witch who'd watched Velia's protectiveness with a faint glint in His eye.

"I think it's the best idea you've ever had," the Witch said, sounding happier than she ever did when she'd actually been alive.

Then both Aslan and the Witch turned to Velia.

"What?" the girl demanded irritably.

"In case you haven't realized, girl, I'm in no position to perform this ceremony," the Witch pointed out sharply.

Velia glared back and forth between the White Nightmare and the Lion. "Perform a ceremony? I'm not doing anything that'll end up with me as dead as that witch-hag over there."

"Only one other will die tonight," Aslan announced quietly, but His voice still carried over the army. "It will not be you."

And with a heaviness that even Velia could feel, the Great Lion made his way through the army toward the Stone Table at the Witch's feet.

As if finally realizing that the Lion was going to die tonight, the Minions slowly began to build up their courage to throw insults and spit at Aslan when He parted the army in half as He walked past.

Velia scowled at the brutes. Even if He was the enemy, there was no honor in jeering like this. She very nearly unsheathed her sword again when a ghoul had the brilliant idea to throw dirt up into the air like rice at a wedding. Soon everyone was joining in on the merriment, showering the Lion in dirt and grass. She gave up on the Minions when a minotaur bleated and swung his club at Aslan, knocking the Lion off his feet.

The last Vasceran watched as the Great Lion of the East remained on His side as a small army of dwarves converged and began to cut off His mane with their knives and swords. She couldn't fathom why He didn't just roar and run up to the Stone Table. Why did He just let Himself be subjected to..._this_?

She'd seen Aslan in battle, and the Lion was beyond _ferocious_. How could He just walk through the ranks and let the Minions humiliate and batter Him like this? What was the point?

She didn't miss the Witch's triumphant smile as the dead queen watched the show—the pointless, meaningless show.

Yet she didn't say a word to stop it. She had her orders, and she would follow them to her death. Foolish theatrics were not her problem.

When the dwarves scurried off the Lion, Velia's brow furrowed at the sight. Aslan seemed a lot less imposing without that great mass of a mane, and even now, as He lay bruised and battered on the ground, He just looked...pathetic.

"Aw, look that the pussy cat!" one of the incubi cooed patronizingly, prodding the Lion's back with the tip of his spear. "Not so terrifying anymore, eh?"

Velia leaped off of Whitefang and strode up to where the Lion lay.

"Enough of this buffoonery," she hissed, reaching down and yanking up Aslan by the scruff of His newly-sheared neck.

Never releasing the unsteady Lion, she walked with Him up the rest of the walkway and nearly hauled him up the Stone Table. He collapsed onto his side in the middle of the platform, breathing laboriously because of His injuries.

"What do I do now?" Velia demanded, glaring up at the Witch's image and _completely_ ignoring the way Aslan stared up at her so intensely from where He lay at her feet.

The Witch shot her a look that immediately made her want to shatter the ice slab. "How _else_ would you kill an animal, girl? Unsheathe your sword."

Velia didn't hesitate as she slid her blade out of its scabbard once more, poising it right over the Lion's throat.

"No, no," the Witch said. "His side. On my mark, stab Him in the side."

Velia looked down at Aslan, meeting his steady gaze with her own. Behind her, the Witch began to chant in the same tongue that the witch-hag had summoned her with. This time, the winds didn't blow, and the flames didn't flicker. Instead, the night became as silent as the dead. No one spoke, moved, or breathed. Only the Witch's senseless murmurings could be heard across the site. Even the moon seemed to hide behind the clouds.

"NOW!"

Velia was not a girl to hesitate, but as the thin, sharp metal cut through warm, soft flesh, she wished she had paused for even a split second. Because one second the Lion was alive and breathing—albeit injured and suffering from possible internal bleeding—but when she plunged her sword into His side, He didn't even flinch.

It was as if He had died a moment before the Witch gave the command.

She expected a reaction from the world. Its great, fearless protector had just died for some arcane spell—there should be wailing winds, earthquakes, torrential downpours, or even the cry of animals. There was only silence.

For three long, empty seconds, there was only a cold, chilling silence before an anguished cry echoed across her mind. She vaguely realized that none of the Minions had heard it because of their lack of a reaction, but she was too busy leaping off the platform and sprinting toward Whitefang.

She kicked him into a fast gallop until he was sprinting across the land, heading straight for where they'd set up camp earlier. She fully believed that Whitefang had some magic running through his veins because the horse managed to cross a twelve-hour march's distance within minutes.

The screams in her mind began to increase as her ears picked up the faint sound. She leaped off the horse as soon as he reached Edmund's tent, and the screaming was all she could hear. She practically ripped through the entrance to see Edmund howling and clutching his head in agony, surrounded by his siblings who all looked on the verge of a complete meltdown. Even Mason stood in the corner, eyes wide.

Where was the bloody battalion she'd left in the vicinity?! How did these three manage to get inside?!

Her incredulous questions vanished from her minds since Edmund was _glowing_ and his entire form seemed to be shaking as she seemed to struggle to keep his head on his shoulders.

Lucy took a tentative step forward, but Velia barked, "STOP!"

Peter, Susan, and Lucy all looked up in surprise to see her.

"What?! Why?!" Susan demanded.

"Don't touch him," Velia ordered, her eyes never leaving Edmund. "Ancient magic has been performed tonight, and your brother is suffering through its effects right now."

Peter glared at her. "Spell?! What spell?!"

"Aslan's counter curse?" Mason demanded from the corner.

"No, this was entirely different," Velia breathed. "That insane Lion managed to find a loophole within the Witch's spell. This was no counter curse. This was _entirely different_ spell…"

Edmund suddenly began to vibrate—as if his entire body was being vigorously shaken back and forth—and suddenly, he hunched forward while he also wrenched backward.

Five mouths dropped as they watched one _pale_ young man drop to his knees on the floor as the other _tanner_ young man stumbled backward into the table—both still glowing like human suns from the residual magic.

Velia recalled the Great Lion's earlier words. _"Edmund Pevensie will return to his siblings in Cair Paravel while you will ride back to the Witch's castle with your king."_

The Grand Hall was silent except for the chirping birds in the garden right outside. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows on either side of the walkway, casting colorful hues across the pale cream floor. One solitary figure ghosted down the hall, her movements never making a sound.

She walked with an air of power, grace, and sadness. In the same way that people would bow their heads in reverence when a funeral procession passed, the Narnians would also fall silent and bow their heads when she walked by. They did not fear her, but neither were they bold enough to directly address her. Unlike the enemy, the Narnians knew that underneath that mask of strength was a brokenness that only a handful of creatures had ever suffered.

The Red Shadow was known under various names—the Fire Demon, the Ghost, and even the Red Witch—but only one truly described her role within the Narnian ranks: the Observer. She never spoke; she stood and watched as the generals and the Pevensies and Aslan discussed battle strategies and plans. She never volunteered an idea, and it seemed that she only communicated through gestures—and even those were only ever directed at Aslan. There were speculations that she was mute, but she never said a word to confirm or deny it.

Yet on that particular day, as the Red Shadow slipped into the Grand Library, all eyes swiveled onto her. Peter, Susan, Lucy, and the two centaur generals, Bastion and Sorren, stared and waited for one of two particular gestures: a nod or a shake of the head.

It was the latter.

Peter raked his fingers through his thick, honey-blond hair as Susan slumped into a chair. Lucy looked crestfallen, but she tried her best not to completely crumple as the two centaurs' frowns deepened. The Shadow's eyes darted to the double balcony doors where Aslan stood, staring out into the ocean. He had His back to the room, but the Shadow knew that the Lion's attention was focused on exactly what was being said behind Him. Tearing her eyes from the Lion, the Shadow moved off to the side and froze at attention like a red-leathered statue.

"So it's hopeless then," muttered Peter. He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his chin down and staring down at a point on the table. "The curse will kill him if we let him be, and the curse will kill him if we save him. There's no way out." He looked up in time to see Lucy's mouth open in protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. "No. I know that we still have to try, all right? But we're not even stuck between a rock and a hard place anymore—we're in a deep hole, surrounded by slippery rocks on all sides."

"Are we to just sit at the bottom and bemoan our lives then?" asked Lucy. "What's the plan? What are we going to do?"

"What _can_ we do?" Susan dug her nails into the arms of the chair as she glowered at the floor. "We're already running around in circles, and Edmund seems to be helping build new circular tracks for us to run. We've been talking about this curse and how much it's changed our brother, but we don't even know if he's our brother anymore."

Lucy spun around, eyes bright with anger. Even now at the age of sixteen, she remained a staunch supporter of her brother's good nature even though her two eldest siblings were beginning to waver. "You don't know that he's _not_ anymore!"

"You don't know that he's _not_ either!" countered Susan, looking up from the floor. "Yes, we know for a fact that he's under some sort of spell, but we don't know _how_ _much_ of Edmund is actually left He could be fully corrupted at this point."

Lucy jumped to her feet, glaring. "So what are you saying? We should just kill him and be done with it?" She continued to stare at Susan, who only shook her head and pursed her lips. "What about Velia? What about that black and silver wolf?"

"What _about_ them?" cried Susan, slamming the heels of her palm on the arms of the chair.

"_They_ are the living proof that there is still enough good in Edmund to be saved, Susan!" cried Lucy. "These pseudo-assassination attempts show that he still cares about us!"

"You know what's a better way to show that he cares? _Ending this bloody war!_ He's holding a sword at our throats—he's not stabbing us, but neither is he dropping it!"

"And isn't that enough to show how hard he's fighting?" asked Lucy. "If he's been cursed to obey the Witch's commands—to _kill_ us—doesn't that mean he's been fighting her, fighting against the curse?"

"It's the curse, Susan," stated Aslan, eliciting soft gasps and murmurs as he walked in through the balcony doors. "It forces him to carry out the Witch's orders—even beyond her death. It must take a great deal of cunning and willpower on his part to skirt around and find loopholes around his orders so he can protect all of you."

Lucy shot her sister a triumphant look. The anger that burned in Susan's eyes was extinguished to show the pain that sagged her shoulders and darkened the skin under her eyes.

"How much longer until the curse completely takes hold of him, Aslan?" asked Susan tiredly. "How much longer until his pseudo-assassination attempts turn into _real_ attempts?"

"For as long as he keeps fighting it, it could be decades," answered the Lion, "but if he begins to lose hope, it could be a mere matter of days."

His amber gaze swept across the room and landed on the Red Shadow. His eyes lingered for a few seconds, and the Shadow gave an imperceptible nod in reply.

"So what are we supposed to do? Send him encouraging notes? _'Hang in there, Ed!'_ If he doesn't throw them into the fire upon delivery, he probably wouldn't listen to us anyway," said Susan.

"Susan's right," said Peter softly.

The betrayed expression on Lucy's face made him backtrack.

"I mean that she's right about the notes," he said, stumbling over his words slightly. "What we said to Edmund hardly mattered to him before all this started; it wouldn't matter to him now. We're running around in circles to the point where this is bordering on complete pointlessness. Edmund is fighting for the sake of fighting, and we're just here to keep him from tearing apart this entire country."

"Instead of dwelling on the situation, perhaps we should try to find a solution?" prompted Bastion, eager to keep the Pevensies from any further arguments.

"Yes, one that doesn't involve _killing our brother_ to put him out of his misery," said Lucy pointedly.

Everyone stared at the Lion eagerly, but He didn't seem inclined to divulge His plans.

"What are we going to do?" asked Lucy, being the only one brave enough to pry.

Aslan didn't hesitate to respond, but His answer wasn't exactly the details of His plan. "The Witch used a very old, arcane spell to bind a portion of her life essence with Edmund's. It gave him a portion of her powers, giving him the ability to perform magic, but it essentially functioned as a set of puppet strings so the Witch could literally control him. He was, for all intents and purposes, the Witch's puppet.

"But the Witch overestimated her own abilities. For magic of that magnitude, it would have taken _much_ more power than the Witch could have supplied, so the spell was flawed. She had control over Edmund, yes, but only to an extent. That is why Edmund was able to fight her—why he was able to shatter the Witch's wand during the battle three years ago. When she died, the spell was supposed to let the Witch's spirit possess Edmund's body, but since it was flawed, your brother is still somewhat in control."

"That sounds promising enough," said Lucy, but Aslan wasn't finished.

"But no matter how valiantly Edmund fights against the Witch's control, the small portion of the Witch's life force is leeching onto Edmund's and will eventually consume him. If the Witch's spirit isn't pulled out of him in time, your brother will be lost forever."

"Well, now I'm overflowing with hope," muttered Susan.

Peter shot her a withering glare before turning back to Aslan. "What are you planning to do?"

The Great Lion's gaze swept the room, making eye contact with ever creature inside until His amber eyes locked with the Red Shadow's. Their silent stares held for three seconds, but a brief conversation was exchanged between the two. The Shadow gave the most infinitesimal nod, and Aslan turned back to Peter.

"I'm going to save your brother."

The three Pevensies blinked simultaneously, but it was Sorren who spoke up. "How, Master?"

"Perhaps the question that should be asked," said Bastion, eyes fixed understandingly on Aslan, "is _what_ we can do to _help_?"

Aslan nodded at the darker centaur, who bowed his head. "All I need from all of you is trust."

Lucy stepped up to the Lion and ran her hands through his mane. "Always, Aslan."

"We trust you," conceded Susan.

"So we will wait for you?" asked Peter.

Aslan turned to look out the windows. "Yes. I will leave in an hour's time. I will be setting up camp near the Fords of Beruna and the Stone Table. I will send instructions for you all when I arrive at my destination. For now, prepare a room here for when I return."

The Pevensies blinked simultaneously. In all the years they'd been with Aslan, the Lion had never slept in any of the rooms. In fact, the only rooms He'd ever actually been in were the library, the throne room, the dining room, and the Grand Hall.

Aslan blinked once to Lucy who nodded and turned to two Susan out of the library, probably to set up the room Aslan had requested.

Peter's eyes followed his sisters' progress until the two girls finally disappeared out the door.

"You're going to bring Edmund back here, aren't you?" asked the eldest Pevensie. "How do you expect to lift Edmund's curse with his entire army standing in your way. I understand that you can plow through them, but it would still be difficult, Aslan. If you give me time, I can organize an attack to distract the troops while you can go up to Ed—"

"No, Son of Adam," interrupted Aslan. Despite His hushed tone, the authoritative ring still rumbled in His voice. "My business does not lie in the Witch's castle. Do not dwell on what I plan to do tonight. I suggest you study your battle plans with Sorren."

When Peter's frown deepened, Aslan sighed. "The war isn't over yet. The worst is still to come. Now go with Bastion and Sorren."

Peter nodded, glancing at the Red Shadow, before he followed the two centaur generals strode out of the library. The Lion then turned to the Red Shadow as well.

"Write this letter exactly how I dictate it, young one."

* * *

"…the army—and _only_ the army—out to the Stone Table in three day's time when the full moon is high in the sky," Edmund read aloud.

He looked at the Red Shadow, who calmly stood in the middle of a wide circle of Minions. Edmund rolled up the letter once more and frowned down at the creature in front of him. He could still feel the pain and heat of each blow she had inflicted upon him from that first battle. It seemed like it had been decades ago when, in fact, it had only been three years.

He itched to demand to know exactly _why_ his army was invited out to the Stone Table—why _he_ was specifically told not to accompany his army to that ancient monument. Only a fool would send his _entire _bloody army out to meet the Great Lion of the East out in that deserted stone slab. The Lion could very well slaughter his entire army, and then where would he be?

And where in the heaven's name is Velia?!

"Mason, find Velia!" hissed Edmund to the big black wolf at his side.

"Master, she stormed out after your little argument earlier," reminded Mason quietly.

Edmund sighed and kept himself from slapping his own forehead. One second they're spilling their secrets to each other, and in the next, they're screaming at each other so viciously that cutler was two seconds away from being wielded as weapons.

Thankfully the girl had enough presence of mind to stomp out of the room threatening decapitation to anyone who even _thought_ to follow her and ask her if she was all right. She'd been seriously debating stabbing her butter knife into Edmund's arm—she knew which major arteries to avoid so that the blood loss was minimal—so she deemed it best that she leave before she decided to act on her thoughts.

Edmund turned back to the Red Shadow, who continued to meet his cold, hard glare. The letter felt as heavy as lead in his hand as he weighed his options. If the Lion was telling the truth, then the Minions could go out to the Stone Table and kill Him. If He was lying, then the Minions would be ambushed and slaughtered—especially if the Red Shadow would be in attendance.

"Why _exactly_ is the Lion doing this?" Edmund asked the Shadow warily.

The Shadow's eyes narrowed, and she motioned to the letter as if the answer was obvious.

Edmund ran his hand through his hair exasperatedly. "I _know_ He intends to make a deal to end this war, but why would He make a deal with _my army_ and not _with me_?"

The Red Shadow—for the very first time since she donned the red leather—rolled her eyes. Then she briskly stepped forward, causing the army around her to contract closer around her. She shot Edmund a pointed glare, and he motioned for the Minions to stand down.

She cleared the distance between Edmund and herself and reached out to grip Edmund's right bicep—placing her gloved fingers right on top of the tattoo under his sleeve. Her black eyes bore into his before she nodded once and then stepped back.

So Velia was right. The Lion actually thought He'd found the counter-curse.

"You can go ahead and tell your Master that we will not be able to acquiesce to His request," said Edmund coldly, mentally congratulating himself for his vocabulary and wishing Velia had been here to hear that he wasn't as stupid as she claimed he was.

"Master?"

Edmund turned to Mason and cocked an eyebrow.

The wolf nudged him to the side, away from the Red Shadow. They ducked into a little niche, out of earshot from the rest of the creatures who's assembled in the Grand Hall when the Red Shadow had arrived.

"Master, perhaps we should see what the Lion has planned. We can set up camp nearby, and you can cast a protection spell over the army if you fear an ambush. And _Velia_ will be there; I'm sure of it."

It was embarrassing, really, that everyone in the castle knew exactly how much Edmund relied on the girl.

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't care about an ambush; I care about the fact that the Lion is going to try and lift my curse."

Mason frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Isn't that a_…good_ thing?"

Edmund narrowed his eyes. "If He lifts the spell, I will die, and remember what I said about me dying?"

The big black wolf blinked once and shrugged. "As soon as Velia returns, you know what she'll say."

"I don't care what Velia says," hissed Edmund. "_I'm _the king. You follow _my_ orders!"

Mason grinned, and his tongue lolled out in amusement. "Yes, _I_ follow _your_ orders, but _you_ always seem to heed Velia's _suggestions_. That girl has such power over you that we should just crown her your Queen and be done with it."

Edmund paled and then blushed a crimson red in quick succession. He managed to keep from spluttering in disbelief.

"We will _not_ be going to the Stone Table," growled Edmund through his teeth, "no matter what Velia says. The Lion is only going to make things worse for _everyone_—yes, the Minions included."

Mason reverted back to seriousness. "I didn't hold much stock in the Lion's abilities, Edmund, but past experience leads me to advise you to perhaps take a chance on Him."

"Whose bloody side are you on?!"

The wolf rolled his eyes. "Just because we fight against the Beast doesn't mean one cannot appreciate his capabilities. Your brother is a skilled fighter, but I'm not on his side in this war. _Know thy enemy_, correct?"

"Yes, yes, the Lion is quite powerful, but I know my problems, Mason," said Edmund wearily. "My curse cannot be lifted."

The smirk returned. "We'll see what Velia says when she returns."

He swished his tail and bounded back to the Red Shadow. "Stay within the vicinity. We'll send you our answer tonight when our general returns."

The Shadow nodded and vanished in a wisp of smoke.

* * *

"This was a horrible idea!"

"And yet here we are."

Edmund and Velia watched as the Minions moved out of the camp, heading southeast to the Stone Table. They would cross the Fords of Beruna before nightfall and reach the Stone Table before moon high.

"I don't care about the Minions themselves, but I need an army, Velia. You _will_ watch over them."

The woman sighed and affectionately patted her black stallion, Stormfang, on the neck. "Of course. Who else am I going to slaughter when I'm irritated with you?"

Edmund only stared up at her. "Woman, sometimes I wonder whose side you're really on."

Velia snorted. "I've always been on your side, idiot." She winked and rode off to lead the Minions.

"This was a horrible idea," muttered Edmund, stomping back into his tent.

"And yet Velia _still_ managed to convince you to come," chuckled Mason.

A battalion of Minions remained with Edmund, but it did nothing to assuage his fears. If that Lion actually does manage to make Edmund's bad situation worse, Edmund was relying on Velia to clean up the mess. But since she was off with the Minions…

Edmund raked his hands through his hair and paced the diameter of his tent as Mason followed his movements worriedly. The young Son of Adam was quite a complicated case, but the wolf knew that his worries were not baseless. Despite the fact that Edmund was the Witch's successor, his heart lay with the Narnian troops. Though _why_ he was fighting against his siblings was beyond Mason.

Whatever the young man's reasons, he was right to be worried. Something lay thick in the air—Mason could _taste_ it.

It had saturated the air of the castle when Edmund had arrived, it hung in the air of the battlefields after the Witch's death, and it clung to his fur now.

_Magic._

* * *

Only two rows of torchlight illuminated the walkway toward the Stone Table. The moonlight itself seemed to shy away from the area as the wind did little to disperse the heaviness of the atmosphere.

The crows had reported no Narnians hiding behind, in, or on top of trees, so Aslan had been telling the truth that He would come alone. Despite the excited murmurs of the prospect of an easy kill, the Minions were subdued as they stayed within their ranks, separating the Great Lion from the huge slab of rune-decorated rock that was the Stone Table.

Velia sat atop Stormfang as she glared down at where Aslan stood in front of her. She and the Minions had ridden up to the ancient site where the torches had already been lit. As soon as the army came to a complete stop, Aslan had appeared behind them.

"Why are we here?" she asked coldly. Her black eyes reflected the flames of the torches on either side of the Lion.

"You are here to negotiate a deal," answered Aslan, unaffected by the girl's hostile tone. "Edmund Pevensie will return to his siblings in Cair Paravel while you will ride back to the Witch's castle with your King."

The excited murmurs of the Minions turned into cries of confusion.

"You've lost your mind," scoffed Velia, leaning back in the saddle. "Absolutely _lost_ your mind."

Aslan didn't respond as he nudged a small rolled-up satchel toward her with his paw. Velia shot him a wary glance before unsheathing her sword and spearing the satchel and bringing it up to herself. She unlaced the opening and reached in to pull out the broken pieces of the Witch's wand.

Shock rippled through the rows of Minions as Velia held up a big piece for all of them to see.

"You expect us to give up Edmund for a _broken stick_?" laughed Velia as she turned back to Aslan. "Did you run into a giant boulder and knock out some of your senses when you took that three-year vacation?"

A few Minions were bold enough to laugh while the rest of them tittered unsurely.

"Call forward one of your witch-hags," said Aslan calmly. "She will summon your Queen."

The laughter tapered off quickly. The confusion returned in full-force.

Velia rolled her eyes and scoffed, replacing the broken wand in the satchel and tossing it back at Aslan's feet.

"This was a waste of time," she scoffed. Turning to the Minions, she barked, "Move out!"

A furious roar knocked her off Stormfang and blew back the first few rows of Minions who'd had the bad luck to be standing too close.

"Call forth a witch-hag to summon the White Witch," snarled Aslan as the flames in the torches flared threateningly.

Velia picked herself up and pointed at a particularly vicious-looking hag. She jumped back onto Stormfang as the hag stepped out of the ranks and slowly moved toward Aslan.

The Lion let out a low rumble of a growl that resonanted around the site as the hag took tentative steps to retrieve the satchel. The ugly creature leapt backward as soon as her claws hooked around the leather bag. Aslan jerked his head toward the Stone Table on the other side of the army, and the witch-hag didn't hesitate before skirting around the army and the Stone Table to face the two tall, stone columns behind the ancient platform. Reverently, the witch-hag pulled out the shards of the Witch's wand and poked them into the dirt in a small circle.

She stood inside the circle and lifted her hands to the sky. She began to whisper, and the torches flickered as the gentle night breeze turned into steadily-growing violent gusts. The condensation in the grass slowly slithered up the columns and froze into a solid fifteen-meter wall of ice. The temperature dropped significantly as the witch-hag chanted louder and louder, the wind battering the torches until only small, blue flames were left to struggle to survive.

Suddenly, the image of the White Witch bloomed into the ice like a sharp, white flower blossoming open. Her hair and clothes drifted around her as if she was floating underwater. The witch-hag shrieked one last chant before crumpling onto the ground—dead.

The Minions clamored over each other, shrieking mixtures of fear, excitement, and confusion. Stormfang reared back on his haunches in shock, and Velia quickly reigned him in, murmuring in his ear to soothe him as the Witch smiled at her evilly.

"I'm glad to see that my choice to let you in my forces paid off, girl," the Witch said to Velia proudly.

The girl did nothing but stare back at the Witch impassively. The dead queen opened her mouth to speak again, but her eyes landed on Aslan. The Witch's eyes widened, and a small smile appeared on her face. The slab of ice and the Great Lion were still a good thirty meters apart, but the tension was heavy in the air.

"What is this?" she breathed. "Are all my dreams coming true? Has the Great Lion come to die at my feet?"

Velia's eyes widened, and the Minions' shrieking intensified. Aslan remained stoic as He faced the Witch's image.

"Your _dream_ comes with a price," He pointed out firmly.

Velia didn't miss the almost-imperceptible way the Witch flinched back from Aslan.

"What's your price?" asked the vision softly, the corners of her mouth still turned up in a small smile.

"Edmund Pevensie."

The Witch threw her head back and laughed, her hair fanning out at her movement. "Oh, you fool. Edmund is _mine_ and neither your death nor his will change that. The only way you can have him back is if you split the boy in two."

Her smile vanished as realization dawned. Everyone else continued to watch the exchange in sheer confusion.

"You're going to sacrifice yourself to split the boy in two?" muttered the Witch in disbelief.

A dwarf made the unfortunate decision to speak up. "Why don't you just rip him apart now? Why does someone have to die to do it? I can use my axe to—"

"You put that axe _anywhere_ near him, fool, and be sure that I'll use it to hack your head off to use as a ball to kick around," hissed Velia, causing the black-bearded creature to pale and duck behind one of his comrades. They'd all seen her do it before.

"Do we have a deal or not?" growled Aslan, who'd watched Velia's protectiveness with a faint glint in His eye.

"I think it's the best idea you've ever had," said the Witch, sounding happier than she ever did when she'd actually been alive.

Then both Aslan and the Witch turned to Velia.

"What?" demanded the warrior irritably.

"In case you haven't realized, girl, I'm in no position to perform this ceremony," said the Witch sharply.

Velia glared back and forth between the White Nightmare and the Lion. "Perform a ceremony? I'm not doing anything that'll end up with me as dead as that witch-hag over there."

"Only one other will die tonight," said Aslan quietly, but His voice still carried over the army. "It will not be you."

And with a heaviness that even Velia could feel, the Great Lion made his way through the army. As if finally realizing that the Lion was going to die tonight, the Minions slowly began to build up their courage to throw insults and spit at Aslan when He parted the army in half as He walked past.

Velia scowled at the brutes. Even if He was the enemy, there was no honor in jeering like this. She very nearly unsheathed her sword again when a ghoul had the brilliant idea to throw dirt up into the air like rice at a wedding. Soon, everyone had joined the merriment, showering the Lion in dirt and grass. She gave up on the Minions when a minotaur bleated and swung his club at Aslan, knocking the Lion off his feet.

The last Vasceran watched as the Great Lion of the East remained on His side as a small army of dwarves converged and began to cut off His mane with their knives and swords. She couldn't fathom why He didn't just roar and run up to the Stone Table. Why did He just let Himself be subjected to…_this?_

She'd seen Aslan in battle, and Lion was beyond _ferocious_. How could He just walk through the ranks and let the Minions humiliate and batter Him like this? What was the point?

There was no missing the Witch's triumphant smile as the dead queen watched the show—the pointless, meaningless show.

Yet she didn't say a word to stop it. She had her orders, and she would follow them to her death. Foolish theatrics were not her problem.

When the dwarves scurried off the Lion's back, Velia's brow furrowed at the sight. Aslan seemed much less imposing without that great mass of a man, and even now, as He lay bruised and battered on the ground, He just looked…pathetic.

"Aw, look at the pussy cat!" one of the incubi cooed patronizingly, prodding the Lion's back with the tip of his spear. "Not so terrifying anymore, eh?"

Velia leaped off Stormfang and strode up to where the Lion lay.

"Enough of this buffoonery," she hissed, reaching down and yanking up Aslan by the scruff of his newly-sheared neck.

Never releasing the unsteady Lion, she walked with Him up the rest of the walkway and nearly hauled him up the Stone Table. He collapsed onto his side in the middle of the platform, breathing laboriously because of his injuries.

"What do I do now?" demanded Velia, glaring up at the Witch's image and _completely_ ignoring the way Aslan stared up at her so intensely from where He lay at her feet.

The Witch shot her a look that immediately made her want to shatter the ice slab. "How _else_ would you kill an animal, girl? Unsheathe your sword."

Velia didn't hesitate as she slid her blade out of its scabbard and poised it over the Lion's throat.

"No, no," said the Witch. "His side. On my mark, stab Him in the side."

Velia looked down at Aslan, meeting His steady gaze with her own. Behind her, the Witch began to chant in the same tongue with which the witch-hag had summoned her. This time, the winds didn't blow, and the flames didn't flicker. Instead, the night became as silent as the dead. No one spoke, moved, or breathed. Only the Witch's senseless murmurings could be heard across the site. Even the moon seemed to hide behind the clouds.

"NOW!"

Velia was not a girl to hesitate, but as the thin, sharp metal cut through warm, soft flesh, she wished she had paused for even a split second. One second the Lion was alive and breathing—albeit injured and suffering from possible internal bleeding—but when she plunged her sword into His side, He didn't even flinch.

It was as if He had died a moment before the Witch even gave the command.

She expected a reaction from the world. Its great, fearless protector had just died for some arcane spell—there should be wailing winds, earthquakes, torrential downpours, or even the cry of animals. There was only silence.

For three long, empty seconds, there was only a cold, chilling silence before an anguished cry echoed across her mind. She vaguely realized that none of the Minions had heard it because of their lack of a reaction, but she was too busy leaping off the platform and sprinting toward Stormfang.

She kicked him into a fast gallop until he was hurtling across the land, heading straight for were they'd set up camp earlier. She fully believed that Stormfang had some magic running through his veins because the horse managed to cross a twelve-hour march's distance in only a couple hours' time.

The screams in her mind began to increase as her ears picked up the faint sound. She leapt off the horse as soon as he neared Edmund's tent, and the screaming was all she could hear. Velia ripped through the entrance to see Edmund howling and clutching his head in agony, surrounded by his siblings who all looked on the verge of a complete meltdown. Even Mason stood in the corner, eyes wide.

Where was the bloody battalion she'd left to guard him?! How did these three manage to get inside?!

Her incredulous questions evaporated when Edmund began to _glow_ and his entire form seemed to be shaking. It felt like a struggle to keep his head on his shoulders.

Lucy took a tentative step forward, but Velia barked, "Stop!"

Peter, Susan, and Lucy all looked up in surprise to see her.

"Don't touch him," commanded Velia, her eyes never leaving Edmund. "Ancient magic has been performed tonight, and your brother is suffering through it's effects right now."

Peter glared at her. "Spell?! What spell?!"

"Aslan's counter-curse?" asked Mason from the corner.

"No, this was different," breathed Velia. "That insane Lion managed to find a loophole within the Witch's spell. This was no counter-curse. This was an _entirely_ _different_ _spell_..."

Edmund's shakes worsened until his very outline began to blur, and suddenly he hunched forward—and wrenched backward.

Five mouths dropped as they watched one _pale_ young man drop to his knees on the floor as one _tan_ young man stumbled backward into the table—both still glowing like human fireflies from the residual magic.

Velia recalled the Great Lion's earlier words. _"Edmund Pevensie will return to his siblings in Cair Paravel while you will ride back to the Witch's castle with your king."_


	14. The Complication

**14  
**_**The Complication**_

* * *

A mere two hours after returning to Cair Paravel, the significant figures of the Narnian army were assembled in the library. Bastion, as always, stood at attention by the west windows, the sun descending behind him as he kept careful watch of the Pevensies. Mason, the apparently-traitorous wolf who'd been the _real_ Narnian spy in the Witch's forces, sat next to the centaur. Peter paced around the center set of bookcases, constantly appearing and reappearing between the rows of books, his brow furrowed in worry and concentration. Susan stood, looking out the east windows, fidgeting with the front of her bodice and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Lucy was curled on the armchair by her sister, head resting against the knees she'd pulled up to her chest. Edmund was the only one who sat the table, quite and rigid as he unseeingly stared at a parchment a meter away.

Books and loose paper littered the surface of the oak table—remnants of the frantic search Edmund had launched upon arriving at the castle. He'd found what he'd been searching for—much to his utter confusion. He didn't know whether to rejoice or jump off the highest turret of the castle. Minutes after realizing exactly what he'd been vacillating between, he felt a sharp stab of guilt for belittling the sacrifice the Great Lion had made for him.

Two minutes after that initial wave of guilt, Edmund found himself missing a dark-eyed, dark-haired raving lunatic who used to throw cutlery at him out of sheer boredom. He missed knowing that she was loyal only to _him_ and not the _cause_. He missed that she knew what he was thinking and berated him for thinking it—all without ever having him say a word. He missed that her twisted sense of humor and sarcasm was the only thing that could get him to crack his ice-cold disposition to smile.

He missed Velia.

But she was on the Witch's side—or rather his evil clone's side. She'd literally cut off her own right hand to join that army, not to play babysitter to him. Edmund's divided allegiances was a thorn in her side, but now that his problem was somewhat rectified, she was free to be her normal, psychopathic self with someone who wasn't saddled with the complex issues Edmund had.

_Had_.

Because _now_ he was free to worry about the fate of Narnia without having his own death hanging over his head. Because _now_ all he had to worry about was that his own evil-possessed inclinations had physically manifested into a figure that literally paled in comparison and rode off with the woman he was in lo—

_That wasn't the problem._

He was supposed to be worrying about the fate of Narnia. He wasn't supposed to be dwelling on the complexities of having a best friend on the _other side_.

Velia had really been his best friend, and he'd honestly believed that despite her decidedly-scary tendencies, she wasn't as evil as everyone thought she was. She was willing to participate in Edmund's pseudo-assassination attempts, and she seemed to genuinely care about his well-being—going as far as squelching any coup attempts and not initiating any herself even though she was more than capable of doing so…with her eyes closed. So it was painful disbelief that Edmund had watched her haul his unconscious evil clone up to his feet and drag him out of the tent, saddle him onto her horse, and ride off to the Witch's castle.

He'd barely registered the words she'd thrown over her shoulder ("Get to the Stone Table now!") because he could only see the expression on her face. He'd gotten so used her impassive expressions that he could read her by her subtle body language or her eyes. This time, however, even her eyes were blank. Like the Red Shadow's. There was no gleam in them—psychotic or otherwise—before she turned and rode off.

It was only until Peter ordered Bastion and a few other centaurs to ride with Susan and Lucy to the Stone Table that everyone realized exactly what Velia had been trying to tell them. The Great Lion had been found, lying on the Stone Table, limbs akimbo, a deep cut on His side. What was most shocking were the trees that had come alive and stretched their roots and branches to form a woody cocoon around the Lion's body, shielding Him from the desecration the Minions had been planning to inflict. It wasn't until Lucy and Susan stepped forward that some of the roots pulled back to let them in.

In the end, everyone agreed to leave Aslan there on the stone platform in His wooded tomb. The trek back to Cair Paravel was long and silent like a funeral procession.

There was no celebration over Edmund's rescue. The Narnians in the castle welcomed him as warmly as they could, but the pain over Aslan's death was too fresh for them to offer anything more than pained smiles and sadly affectionate gestures.

Edmund could hardly stomach everything that was happening. He'd managed to retain the vast amount of knowledge with which the Witch had cursed him, so he had a fairly good idea of what Aslan had done. Still, he had rushed to the library to supplement his knowledge. What he found only made his guilt a thousand times worse.

When Peter, Susan, and Lucy found him with Bastion and Mason at their heels, Edmund had to tell them. They needed to know exactly what the Lion had done.

"The spell itself is easy enough to understand," he'd explained as they congregated where he stood at the table, a thick tome open in front of him. "It separates particular traits of a creature and effectively pulls it out. That way if a fox is particularly adverse to sadness, he can employ a spell caster to pull that particular emotion out so the fox will never be burdened by it again."

"Suppose I don't want to be afraid of anything," said Peter, his eyebrows pulling together as he skimmed the passage. "I could have someone cast this over me and never be afraid of anything again?"

"Precisely, but Aslan and the Witch took this to an entirely different level." He pushed the book to the side and unrolled a particularly ancient scroll. "The power of the spell depends solely on the amount of energy the caster puts into the spell itself. If the caster doesn't put forth enough energy, the spell will eventually fade, but if the caster puts for a significant amount of energy, the spell will be strong and will be nigh unbreakable. Now transplant that concept to the spell I just told you about." He pulled out a scrap sheet of parchment where he'd scribbled his notes to show everyone. "Because there was no way to break my curse without killing me and sending Narnia into its own perpetual Dark Ages, Aslan knew that He'd have to use that spell to pull the curse out of me. Unfortunately, this wasn't just some emotion or characteristic that could be easily done away with. This was a powerful, binding curse that connected me and the Witch. To sever that connection so the curse wouldn't just rebound into me, Aslan had to bring the Witch into the picture."

"Wait, _what_?!" demanded Susan, eyes wide. "The Witch is back?!"

Edmund shook his head. "Death is merely another plane of living. She may not exist on this plane, but there are particularly powerful creatures who know how to breach that gap and contact her. Witch-hags can summon spirits, and I'm sure that's why Aslan ordered my army to the Stone Table to meet with Him. He needed their collective energy to build a bridge between planes of existence to temporarily bring the Witch back because she's the only one who could successfully pull the curse out of me, but a spell of that magnitude couldn't be tossed aside, forgotten. She'd need to anchor it in someone else. And she wouldn't agree to a deal like this for nothing less than blood on her hands and the assurance of her victory."

"What does this have to do with the amount of power being put into a spell?" asked Peter.

"Because the Lion sacrificed not just His _energy_ but His _life_ to the spell, He literally gave life to my curse," said Edmund. "Aslan either simplified our problem or sped up the process because now this clone of mine is the monster I would've become if I'd succumbed to the curse."

When his announcement had been met with a disturbing lack of fear, Edmund had no choice but to illustrate exactly what his curse had entailed—something he had been prevented from doing because of the curse itself.

"The spell is more like a sickness than an actual curse. It infected my body, seeping into muscle and bone. If I had been killed, the process would've sped up, but eventually, it would still have consumed me. I fought against it as hard as I could; that's why I still managed to create the black and silver wolf to save you and come up with various ways to keep the Minions from attacking you. That sickness was the Witch's life force."

"Right," said Susan, frowning down unseeingly at the parchments strewn across the table. "A-Aslan told us of how she fused a portion of her life force into you."

"That's how she managed to control me. I would have been the puppet-monster she could control beyond the grave."

"Is that what your clone is then?" asked Bastion. "A puppet-monster she controls from beyond the grave?"

"A puppet-monster imbued with more power than even _she_ had. And what's worse: he can't be killed."

And _that _statement was what pulled everyone into the current states they were in: Peter pacing, Susan standing, Lucy retreating into herself, and Edmund…_thinking_.

His thoughts wandered to what _she _was doing with his evil clone. Was she laughing with him? Gleefully berating the Minions for their infinite stupidity and utter uselessness and setting a few of them on fire just to emphasize her point?

What was _he_ doing? Was he laughing with her or was he sitting at a table, nursing a massive headache as he pored over battle plans and spells like Edmund himself had done whenever Velia was going off on one of her tirades? Was he harnessing power, building energy so he could finally finish the job and take over Narnia in one fell swoop? Now that Aslan was dead, only four measly humans stood in his way of total domination.

The Narnians would have a very small window of opportunity—truthfully, it was more of a _rat hole_ than an actual _window_—to rid the world of Edmund's clone, but even their chances of doing so were on the very edge of hopelessness. They needed to strike before the clone could pool his power, but even then, how would they be able to fight against a man who couldn't be killed?

Aslan had saved Edmund's life, but by doing so, He had doomed Narnia.

* * *

He had ordered her to fetch him a book. It had been a simple task that—once upon a time—she would've casually carried out before the Lion's spell had been cast. Instead, she had argued with him, and her compliance came in the form of her picking up the book and then _throwing _it at him. The fury in his cold, black eyes showed that he'd given serious thought to killing her.

But because her method of _calming down_ was to scream at the army, he saw how the Minions reacted to Velia. He saw how she cowed them, how they feared her, and he knew that he was most likely _never_ going to kill her. She'd stormed out of the castle in a whirlwind of rage, kicked open the massive castle door, beheaded a succubi, and dared anyone else to comment. She growled another command, and the entire army snapped to attention, falling into straight, orderly ranks. They were still a messy, dirty horde of monsters, but their ragged appearances only added to their ferocity.

And the way he looked at her shifted, turned from amusement to pleasure. In his eyes, she'd shifted from general to queen.

So he stood with her at the top of the courtyard steps, surveying the army. He'd ordered them to be assembled, but when asked if they were to march to battle, he answered no.

"What now?" she asked. "Are we to stand here forever? As fun as that may sound, I do believe that would slightly counterproductive."

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her up against his side, and she responded with a look of disgust and loathing. He smirked. "Relax," he said softly, fingertips rubbing circles on the side of her armor. "I'm about to solve all our problems."

"You can solve the first of my problems by _never touching me again_," she hissed, ramming her fist against his side—the same place where he'd been touching her—and forcing him away a few steps. "Let's start over, shall we?"

It didn't hurt, but the force she expended was exemplary. He only smiled wider.

"What are you doing?" she asked bracingly, arms folded over her chest.

"This is a fairly small army, isn't it?" he asked, smoothly regaining his composure and looking out over the Minions again.

Looking utterly unimpressed by his observation, Velia only shrugged and shook her head dismissively. "If you say so."

"So I did," he said. His smile turned wicked. "Shall we make it bigger?"

He faced the army again and held out his arms. The air thickened with static electricity as a cold wind swept through the courtyard. His eyes darkened to pitch-black as he began to murmur in an ancient language. Velia softly muttered, "I'm so sick of magic," but he didn't seem to hear or didn't seem to care. Thick black mist seeped out of the ground as he continued his spell, and the Minions wavered and fussed in worry.

"Hold your ground!" barked Velia irritably, glaring at everything and throwing her hands up in frustration. "What are you _doing?!_" she demanded of him.

He only ignored her and persisted with the spell, even as more and more of the mist drifted upward until a thick cloud covered the Minions up to the trolls' chests. All the other creatures were lost in the black smog, but they could be heard clamoring in fear, unable to move out of the cloud. The noise grew as the blackness roiled out of the courtyard, spilling out into the land outside of the castle boundaries until it covered almost the entirety of the castle territory.

"If you're trying to kill your army, I'd say you're doing a magnificent job," said Velia as she sneered at the tendrils of mist that tried to move toward her. "Get this away from me else you prefer your spine wrenched out of your back."

He finally stopped chanting and lowered his arms, grinning widely. "Worry not, my dear. It won't harm a single hair on the head of any creature. Just _watch_."

The noise of the army had multiplied tenfold, and as the mist finally dissipated, Velia saw why it had gotten so loud. The smoky haze lifted to reveal an entirely new army—replicas of the original. The new Minions had spread to fill the entire area that the fog had covered.

He turned to her, snaking his hand around her waist again. "Now our army is a _hundred_ times bigger than the Narnians'. We don't have much time to waste now. Assemble your new troops. We march to Cair Paravel before midnight.


	15. The Second

**15  
**_**The Second**_

* * *

Edmund didn't eat that night. He lay in the gigantic, warm bed in his room and stared up at the dark green canopy as the moonlight filtered in through the open balcony doors. Summer was slowly beginning to soften into autumn. It had been _years_ since he was able to feel the warmth of a bed and the cool nighttime wind, but even as he lay there, he couldn't truly appreciate what was surrounding him. He was too busy realizing that this was _all_ his fault. Of course he'd known that for a very long time—ever since he woke up to find that black tattoo around his arm—but it was just now truly sinking in. He'd never had enough time to really dwell on it because either the Witch was always harassing him and forcing him to learn spell after spell or he was too engrossed in trying to find a way to break his curse.

If only he hadn't deluded himself into thinking that the Witch Lucy had been talking about wasn't the White Lady who'd offered him Turkish Delight.

If only the Witch had killed him when she realized his siblings had escaped.

If only killing the Witch could have effectively broken all of her spells.

"Edmund!"

He bolted upright right as Lucy barreled in through his bedroom door, panic etched across her features. "What's happened?!"

"The Red Shadow!" she gasped. "She just appeared to warn us that your evil cone—the other—the—I don't know what to call him! Whatever-His-Name-Is marching _here_! And his army's bigger! Get dressed!"

If only he'd never stepped foot into this accursed land.

He threw off his blankets and leapt out of bed, yanking on his shirt and boots and rushing to the trunk where a spare set of armor had been laid for him. He disregarded the heavy metal and opted for the thick, dark leather, knowing that a fight with the Minions meant a need for speed rather than simple defense. Within a matter of seconds, he was armed and sprinting toward the courtyard where a large portion of the Narnian army had assembled.

He grabbed the proffered sword from the centaur in charge of the armory and strapped it to his belt before grabbing a bow and arrow from a helpful dwarf. He joined the circle of generals with Peter and Susan.

"They must have begun marching at midnight, but it's like they're _sprinting_ rather than marching," said Peter, frowning darkly as he held up a map. "The last time the Red Shadow checked in, the army was about to cross the old battlefields."

"They'll be here by sunrise," said Mason.

"That's impossible," said Susan. "I've never heard of such a large army that could move that fast."

"She also said it had multiplied tenfold," said Bastion. "I think the time for believing the impossible has come."

"He's getting more powerful by the hour," said Edmund through his teeth. "He's used the replicating spell—it's the only explanation to why the Minions multiplied so vastly so quickly. That spell takes a massive amount of energy, and if he's managed to do it _and_ mobilize the army, he's a lot stronger than I was before." He barely took note of the horrified faces of his two eldest siblings and the stony, determined expressions of Bastion, Sorren, and Mason before continuing. "He's quickly generating power, and he's amassed his forces so he can finally end this war. If he isn't taken down within the next week or so, he'll be completely unstoppable. This is our best opportunity to end this war."

"And now we're supposed to come up with a brilliant strategy on the fly?" demanded Peter. "We've only had a few minutes' notice that a battle was about to be waged on our doorstep."

"In our defense, most of our better ideas were improvised," said Susan mildly, looking up from the map.

"True," muttered Sorren, "but that probably still isn't the best way to go about this."

"We've been at it for the last three years, and no one has gained the upper hand so far," said Susan.

"That's because you were fighting against _me_," said Edmund patiently, "not evil incarnate. I made you all run around in circles because ending the war meant bringing a monster into the world. Now that the monster is out anyway, the time for games is over."

"So you admit that you wasted lives by _playing_ us?"

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Edmund cut him off, eyes locked with his older sister.

"I've made my mistakes. What lives I took did not fly over my head unnoticed. Blood is on my hands, and I don't need you to remind me of that. This is our chance—_my _chance—to try and ask forgiveness for what I've done. I'll try my best to avenge the deaths of the Narnians, and I don't care if you continue to blame me for everything because _truthfully_, it _is all my fault_. However, you can dwell on that when a million savage creatures aren't about to descend upon us and drive us out into the ocean. For now, I need you all to trust me."

"Ed, what are you going to do?" asked Peter.

A pan shot through Edmund's chest. He hadn't been called that nickname in a very long time, and even if he'd always harbored some resentment toward his older brother, it had all but _vanished_ over the past several years.

Peter hadn't been lying that day. He didn't literally come back for his younger brother, but he never gave up on him either. And as Edmund watched his brother assemble the Narnian troops, he realized that Peter's bizarre, unwavering faith in him manifested in the way the eldest Pevensie followed his orders without question. They hadn't spoken much ever since Edmund returned, but he could feel the almost-tangible change in their relationship. He' long-suspected that _if_ he ever did return, Peter would be grateful and thankful for a while, but the tension in their relationship would eventually resurface. But now…it seems he was wrong.

Of course, Peter seemed grateful and relieved that Edmund was safe, but there was something different in the older Pevensie's eyes.

_Respect._

In the years that Edmund spent leading the Narnians around in a merry goose-chase, Peter had found some way to empathize with Edmund. He watched as Edmund's army advanced and retreated, advanced and retreated, and so forth without them even realizing it. He saw blatant mistakes in Edmund's strategies that left openings for the Narnians to either retreat or win. He saw how Velia carried out those famous pseudo-assassination attempts. He was on fairly close terms with that black and silver wolf.

Time as a general of the Narnian army forced Peter to grow up quickly as he observed the movements of his enemy. He _knew_ Edmund had been playing them, but he also knew that he'd done it for a reason. His brother had torn allegiances, and he knew that even though his own position as Narnia's last hope was daunting, Edmund was having a much worse time. Wisdom coupled with understanding led him to respect his brother even from a distance. Susan, on the other hand, didn't mature as gracefully.

As Edmund positioned the archers along the turrets and hidden in some of the trees outside the castle walls, Susan approached him.

"Edmund, I—"

He looked down at his older sister. He was just about the same height as Peter, so he must've shot past her a couple years ago.

"It's fine," he interrupted, knowing exactly what she was going to say because of her apologetic expression. "You're just frustrated, and it's an involuntary reaction to find someone to blame. It just so happens that the blame legitimately falls on me."

"Ed, don't—"

He gave her a lopsided smile before snaking an arm around her shoulders and dropping a kiss to her temple.

"What your back around the incubi," he said. "They work in pairs to attack you from the front and then ambush you in the back. If you see one advancing, pull out two swords and jab to your front and slice at your back simultaneously—works every time."

Edmund found Lucy standing at the turret right above the drawbridge. Her hands were braced on the ledge as she stared out over the rolling green hills. The darkness of night loomed in font of the castle as the first few vestiges of sunlight shone behind them, reflecting off the waves of the ocean. She linked her arm with his when she heard him approach, and she smiled warmly before resting her head on his shoulder.

"I missed you, you know," she muttered. "Even if you were such a surly, taciturn little boy."

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head gently. "I missed you too, Lu."

"Are you happy to be back?" she asked, sounding so much like the little eight year old girl she'd been.

"I'm too busy being worried to be happy."

"I'm sorry all of this happened, Ed. Maybe if I hadn't hid in the wardrobe, none of this would've—"

And, right there, he remembered that someone else felt even more guilty than him because she took it a step further.

"No, Lucy. Absolutely none of this was your fault. It was all me," he said, giving her a little shake.

"But I'm the one who dragged all of you with me!" she protested.

"And I'm the one who went off and made friends with the dictator of Narnia," he reminded her gently. "The only thing you need to feel guilty about is that I didn't get a welcome-back cake."

He grinned at her, and she smiled and patted his back.

"Once this is all over, I'll make you a cake. I've learned a few new recipes since England, you know," she said matter-of-factly.

He shot her a lopsided smile and hugged her tighter against his side. He'd laid out a simple battle plan: hold the castle until _he_ was defeated. He didn't really tell anyone that _he_ was planning on being the one to take care of _him_ though.

They were better off not knowing anyway.

Everyone was saying this was the second major battle of the war. The first had been when the Witch had died, and now because of _him_, they were all expecting this to be an epic battle to rival the Witch's downfall—especially since they had a lot more to lose this time. The prophecy, which had been averted when Edmund's allegiances shifted to the left, was now back on track. Two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve were now standing in Cair Paravel, but the Witch's presence was still infecting Narnia.

And as Edmund stood with his little sister, he knew that this would be the second major battle in the war, and it would also be the last. His counterpart was going to end this war as soon as possible—even if it meant throwing every brick of Cair Paravel into the ocean one-by-one. There wouldn't be another battle after this, but Edmund didn't have the heart to tell anyone else.

The Narnian forces were resilient and strong, but asking them to face impossible odds over and over was too much. Their numbers were dwindling, and if they didn't win today, it would take a very long time to rebuild the army to fight another day. And that would be a very futile battle indeed.

Today, it was now or never, all or nothing.

* * *

The hills were empty as the Narnians stared out into the distance. The banners waved and flapped as the waves crashed against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, but the entirety of the Narnian army waited with baited breath.

The Red Shadow checked in one more time to give a silent report that the Minions were a mere hour away before vanishing in a puff of smoke once more. What made Edmund nervous though, was the look she gave him before she disappeared. She seemed…_apologetic. _He had no idea what to make of it, but the Red Shadow's nebulous messages were the least of his worries.

At first, no one could hear it because of the snapping, undulating banners, but the animals were the first to detect and report it: _drums_—a steady rhythm, a heartbeat. Moments later, like a tidal wave of black and grey, the Minions appeared on the crest of a hill and descended. Horde after horde of ragged, dirty, vicious creatures moved in ordered ranks, coming in from all sides to corral the Narnians so they had nowhere else to go but the sea.

Two riders headed the massive army—one female and one male. She was familiar enough in her black, form-fitting leather armor, but he wasn't familiar at all—like knowing that you _should_ know this person but still not being able to recognize them.

They _should_ know that it was the clone, but it was as if they were nothing alike. The true Edmund Pevensie was clad in dark brown leather armor and wearing the Narnian red-and-gold tunic—tall, dark, and lean as he rode atop a brown stallion next to his brother. The clone wore black and silver armor, and though they were identical, _that_ Edmund seemed to have more sharp, jagged features. His eyes pierced through gazes, cold and emotionless. Expressions he made were cold and empty as the expression on a statue.

Not to mention the fact that his horse seemed to have been raised from the dead. The man was a walking nightmare. He didn't stop to offer any futile agreement for a bloodless surrender. He just spurred his undead horse into a full gallop, leading his army straight into battle with no hesitation whatsoever.

Edmund glanced at Peter, and the older man nodded once.

"Watch your back," said Peter quietly, turning his horse to the left.

In that moment, Edmund realized that Peter had somehow strengthened the brotherly bond between them despite the distance over the past years. He knew Edmund was going to deal with the clone, so Peter was going to deal with Velia. It was an unspoken concession of a divide-and-conquer plan.

"You too," replied Edmund, reigning his horse to the right.

A few meters away, Peter had turned to give one last speech to his soldiers, and as Edmund turned to do the same to the troops behind him, he looked at the faces of the fauns, centaurs, nymphs, and animals. Yet he offered them no words of hope or victory.

"I'm so sorry," he said, knowing his voice would carry over the drums and marches of the Minions, "for everything I've put you all through."

And one little chipmunk scampered up the leg of his horse and stood on the stallion's rump, staring up at Edmund with wide eyes. He glanced back at the army and one faun gave an imperceptible nod.

The little creature turned back to Edmund. "We know it wasn't you." It leapt off the horse and dashed back into the ranks.

Edmund raked his hands through his hair, still staring out over the troops. Guilt continued to pool low in his stomach as the thundering footsteps of the Minions grew louder with each passing second. He nodded to them once, not knowing what to say, and then turned to face the oncoming horde. They were only a few hundred meters away. He could clearly see his own pale, hard face galloping at full speed toward him.

500 meters…450…400—

"Fire!" he and Peter roared as one.

A cloud of arrows shot over their heads, a shade in the early morning sunlight. The first volley brought down the initial wall of black, and the Minions behind them stumbled and tripped over the corpses of the fallen front line. _He_ had created a small force field over his head, and the arrows that hurtled toward him bounced off the shield uselessly. His smirk remained intact.

200…150—

"Fire at will!" bellowed Peter.

Volley upon volley of arrows rained down on the Minions, bringing down a few hundred more, but it hardly even dented the sheer magnitude of the army. Several Minions stumbled over the corpses of their fallen comrades, but wave after wave of dark creatures continued to flood the hills and surround the castle.

Edmund turned back to see the clone had veered off course, braced to plough through a line of nymphs. Edmund spurred his stallion into a full sprint to intercept him, but a werewolf shot out and tackled him to the ground, knocking both him and his horse down.

Rolling onto his shoulder and leaping to his feet, Edmund unsheathed his sword and sliced at the werewolf. One paw came off, and a deep gash began to spurt blood from the creature's chest as it tipped over and died. Edmund rushed to the stallion to check it for any injuries, but the horse, seemingly able to understand, merely nodded at him and staggered to his feet.

"Go," said Edmund, patting the stallion's neck. "I'll be fine."

The horse whinnied softly and nudged Edmund's head affectionately before turning and kicking a troll in the stomach with his hind legs.

The vastness of the Minion army could be illustrated by the fact that Edmund hacked through rank after rank of Minions, and he only encountered a handful of red-and-gold-clad soldiers. The Narnians were _severely_ outnumbered, and if this battle didn't end soon, the Narnians themselves would become extinct.

He needed to find the _other_ immediately.

Edmund vaulted over a pile of Minion corpses, but a claw suddenly wrapped around his ankle and dragged him down. He collapsed onto the bloody pile, and he turned just in time to see a wraith stab a long, narrow sword straight through his thigh.

He cried out in pain, but two seconds later, a sword sliced straight through the wraith's head, the tip sticking straight out from between the ugly creature's eyes. The sword retreated and the wraith dropped to reveal Velia standing above it, hair in completely windswept-disarray and sword dripping with blood. She rushed over to Edmund with a stony expression as she examined the sword that still remained firmly embedded in his leg.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, fingers digging small holes in the dirt as she gripped the handle of the sword firmly in one hand and braced the other on his leg.

"If you leave the sword in, you'll become paralyzed and die. Your _bloody twin_ had the brilliant idea of lacing all the weapons with poison," she growled. "I know you well enough that you would never retreat to the infirmary, so I need to bandage you _now_. I won't let you run around the battlefield with a shard of metal in your leg."

And without any further warring, she wrenched the sword right out with a loud squelching noise. Stifling his screams of pain, he slammed his head down on the soft grass as she ripped a section of his red-and-gold tunic to use as a temporary bandage.

"Oh, suck it up," she teased. "This is _nothing_ compared to hacking off your own hand."

"Did I ever tell you that you're insane?" he gasped.

"On a daily basis," she quipped. She tightened the bandage, making him wince. "You won't last long like this, Edmund. Go do what needs to be done so this will end and you can go to the infirmary."

She hauled him up to his feet, but he grabbed her hand to keep her from leaving.

"Whose side are you on?" he demanded, staring at her intently, trying to wring the very truth from any nuance in her expression.

Her stiff expression relaxed, and she smiled at him softly, exasperatedly. "Yours. I've always been on _your_ side."

That was all he needed. He tangled one hand in her thick, dark hair and dragged her mouth to his. Fire burned all through his skin as her lips gently moved with his. He expected a kiss with Velia to be harder and rougher, but she was still as soft and gentle as any woman.

She pulled back after a few long seconds with a small smile—one distinctly less exasperated. She brushed his jaw with her fingertips and gave him one last small kiss before dashing off and disappearing into the thick of battle.

In all honesty, he had no idea exactly _why_ he did that. If he was still the alleged King of Narnia, then a relationship with her would've been plausible, but now that they were on opposing sides, he was essentially a traitor already.

But this girl_ really_ didn't seem _evil_. She was a psychopath and she had a sort of air about her that conveyed a message of danger, but after talking to her and spending time with her, he knew for a fact that she wasn't evil like the Witch. She sought revenge, and in her journey to avenge her people, she was led down the wrong path, but…

But this was no time to be thinking about allegiances especially if they weren't his.

Edmund shook his head to stop the spinning and turned around just in time to see the hordes part and reveal the clone, locked in an intense battle with Bastion. He staggered around the small circle, blood drenching his right leg and leaving thick, bloody footprints in the grass. Edmund vaguely took note of the fact that his own stab wound was in the same place as the clone's.

It was because of this injury thatthe clone couldn't put his entire weight on his right leg to dodge Bastion's vicious slash. He fell to the ground, and Bastion brought his sword down straight through his heart.

But nothing happened.

No blood spurted from his chest; his eyes didn't flutter and close. His body didn't convulse and die. He merely stared at the broadsword in his chest.

"Well, this is quite an advantage," the clone said, in Edmund's own voice. He wrapped his hand around the hilt and yanked it out of his shoulder.

Bastion's eyes were wide with shock and fear. "That's not possible."

"Not _probable_," corrected the clone.

Edmund glanced down at his own bandaged stab wound, feeling the burning poison seeping into his muscles.

He lifted his sword and looked back at the clone. Bringing the tip of the blade to his hand, Edmund sliced through the meaty part of his palm. No one could have seen it if they weren't looking for it, but Edmund saw it clear as day: the clone's jaw twitched and clenched, and his left hand curled into a fist, blood dripping between his clenched fingers.

And unlike the Narnians, who saw an undefeatable adversary, Edmund saw his one last hope. And just as Edmund was about to lunge forward and attack, the clone turned, locked eyes with him, smiled, and then bolted, disappearing into the throng of Minions.


	16. The Sacrifice

**16  
**_**The Sacrifice**_

* * *

For someone who was powerful enough to clone his entire army ten times over, the man was such a coward. Edmund had thought he'd be more willing to face off with him, but no. He _ran_.

The younger Pevensie man was shocked into complete inaction until he finally regained his senses and tore after the fool. The pain in his leg was numbed by either adrenaline of the battle or by the poison, but he couldn't bring himself to worry as he chased the quickly-retreating figure of his evil counterpart. In spite of the fact that he was making amazing progress considering his injuries, Edmund was quickly outdistanced because of the Minions who had their hearts set on ripping him apart, muscle by muscle.

The closer he came to the castle, the more the Minions' bloodlust rose and the more the numbness spread across his leg. It was by sheer dumb luck that he managed to keep from twisting his ankle. In all honesty, it was sheer dumb luck that somehow managed to keep him alive for this long.

He'd encountered Peter, who was _barely_ holding his own against a slew of trolls who'd converged. Wrenching a long, metal spear out of a nearby corpse of an efreeti, Edmund surged forward and speared three trolls straight through their stomachs. He reached down to grab a nearby fallen torch and brushed the flame against the trolls' loincloths and vests, setting them aflame. Wielding the torch like a club, Edmund turned, swung, and slammed it into the face of the nearest non-flaming troll, whose greasy, oily head immediately caught fire. Seizing the opportunity, Peter sliced off the screeching troll's head as Edmund turned his wrath onto the other trolls. Sword in hand, he sliced the bellies of two trolls, gutting them and running the torch across their equally-greasy torsos and roasting them as well. The blood doused the flame, but that didn't stop Edmund from slashing open one more troll's neck and shoving the smoking torch inside. Hefting a scythe he found on the ground, Edmund sheathed his sword and used both hands to swing at the remaining four trolls, catching them all in the faces and making them drop like boulders.

Panting, Edmund turned to Peter, who looked simultaneously horrified and proud, and shrugged guiltily. Then he tossed the scythe and broke into a run, continuing the chase of the clone—the same clone who'd just broken into the castle and was now dueling with Susan. He was attempting to push her off her post on the ledge above the drawbridge.

A black-bearded dwarf jumped in his way, and Edmund kicked the little creature in the face and stole his little sword. Pulling his arm back, Edmund silently thanked Velia for the knife-throwing lessons and hurled the little sword at the clone. It lodged into his neck, sending him flying off the parapet.

Susan briefly shot her brother a grateful glance before he launched himself onto one of the ladders braced against the castle walls for the Minions to cross the moat and storm up. Susan leaned over the edge to shoot any Minion who tried to stop Edmund's ascent, and as soon as he was up, he grabbed the nearest torch and set the ladder on fire.

"He's dead, Edmund!" she cried joyfully, and then her expression fell when she saw her brother's dark look.

He pointed at the ground where the fool was slowly sliding the knife out of his neck and pulling himself to his feet.

"Our lives can never just be a simple matter of life and death anymore," he muttered darkly.

"How will you—?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out myself."

He swung a leg over the ledge and dropped onto a few bales of hay in the corner to cushion his fall. The clone was heading for the front doors of the castle, and it wouldn't take a genius to deduce who his next target would be.

While the battle raged outside the walls, the castle itself functioned as the infirmary. Armored Narnians with a white cloth tied around their left arms were constantly running in and out, ferrying the wounded. Lucy, having been gifted with the healing cordial, had assumed the role of head healer and was stationed in the main throne room where the more severely wounded were laying and being administered drops of the cordial.

Fortunately, Edmund managed to catch up to the fool just outside the castle doors. The clone was about to sink his sword into the chest of an infirmary soldier, and Edmund wasn't about to let another drop of innocent blood be spilled. As soon as he was within range, Edmund pulled out the dagger in his boot and hurtled it straight at the fool. He dropped to the ground, the knife embedded to the hilt in his neck…again.

Edmund strode forward, brandishing his sword at any Minion who dared to stand in his way. There was a large number of them that had congregated to see the two Edmunds face off. The paler of the two propped himself up onto one elbow and pulled the knife out of his neck with the other hand. There was no blood or even any physical sign of pain.

"Well, well, well," he rasped, grabbing the sword he'd dropped and pulling himself up to his feet. "We meet again."

Edmund glared at him but didn't say a word. He just stared at the hole in the man's pale, white neck. The wound didn't bleed; it didn't close up. It just…remained bloodlessly open.

"What? No greeting for your twin broth—"

Edmund was a sorcerer, yes. He could throw spells, curses, and potions like a hundred-year-old wizard, but what made him such a formidable leader was the fact that despite his obvious magical skills, he was a much, _much_ better warrior. What made him such a good warrior was because he used his head in battle. He familiarized himself with his limits and paid attention to the limits of others. He knew his weaknesses and how to handle them; he learned others' weaknesses and figured out how to handle them.

One of his new weaknesses was the steady decline of _feeling_. His mind spun at the pain—or rather the disturbing fact that his body didn't hurt as much as it _should_ have. He _really_ didn't have a lot of time left.

It was time to stop prolonging the inevitable.

Edmund lunged forward, feint to the right, slam one fist into the clone's stomach, a knee to his face, and the hilt of his sword to his forehead. Twisting, Edmund whipped his sword around and slammed it right through the clone's shoulder, but he didn't stop there. He pushed the clone down onto the ground and sank the sword deep into the earth so it was hilt-deep in the clone's shoulder.

"Oh, come now, Edmund," mocked the clone. "Haven't we been through this dance already? You can't _hurt me._"

A flash of red suddenly caught Edmund's eye. The Red Shadow had just _literally_ torn through a troll and now stood staring at Edmund with wide, dark eyes, awaiting his next move just like everyone else who'd crowded in a wide circle around him and the clone.

"It makes sense, you know," muttered Edmund vaguely, his sight blurring. "That it would have to end like this."

Edmund saw the moment when understanding dawned on his evil counterpart's eyes—why he was pinned to the ground, why Edmund said what he had, and why Edmund was reaching for the other sheathed dagger hidden in his sleeve…

He tried to rise, to pull the sword out. But it couldn't be done with one hand. Immediately after realizing he couldn't, he employed the use of his magic, but when the first sparks of a spell glowed in his hand, they died. A sharp, cold pain radiated from his chest, inches from where the sword was embedded in his shoulder.

He looked up at the real Edmund, frowning in both shock and disbelief.

That had always been Edmund's weakness. He was never good at contingency plans. That's why he always had to make sure that his initial plans were foolproof because he couldn't, for the life of him, come up with a thousand different solutions to a thousand different problems that _could_ arise.

It was why the clone was so confused. He thought there would only be one outcome to this war: his victory. He believed he was his own man—free of the original entity from whence he'd come. He assumed Edmund would, in no way, jeopardize the freedom he'd been given at such a high cost and the potential fulfillment of the prophecy that could save Narnia. He underestimated Velia's suicidal influence over the past few years. He did not realize how strong and how deep Edmund's suppressed allegiances to Narnia was. He held too much stock in his own alleged immortality.

"_No!"_

Edmund knew that voice. Through the haze of the spreading cold, burning ache in his chest, he vaguely wondered why _that_ voice was coming from _that_ body, and when the Red Shadow ripped off her mask as he sprinted over, the pure shock of it all made Edmund drop to his knees and pitch forward to collapse on his face.

Luckily, Velia caught him right before he hit the ground.

"You…you're a bloody _liar_," he gasped, taking in the sight of her long, dark hair against the backdrop of red leather as she laid him on his back.

"I've never lied to you," she growled, examining the position of the dagger, "and _you're_ the bloody fool. Spent over eight years holed up in the Witch's library, and you never encountered some ancient, arcane spell that could kill that other fool without killing yourself in the process?! _Bastion!_ Go get Lucy and her cordial!"

"No!" rasped Edmund, grabbing Velia's wrist and glaring up at the centaur who'd stopped mid-gallop. "No! Get Susan and Lucy, but take them to the Stone Table!"

Velia glared down at Edmund but barked at Bastion, "Don't listen to him! It's the poison and the blood loss! He's delirious!"

Edmund slapped Velia's hand away, somehow managing to find some strength despite his condition. "I'm not delirious! Don't say I'm delirious! It's not nice to say things like that when a man is dying. _Bastion_, for goodness sake, get my sisters and ride to the Stone Table!"

"Why?!" demanded Velia.

Edmund swallowed and glanced over Velia's shoulder to see where the other Edmund was spread-eagle on the ground, gasping for air as he stared up at the sky. No one paid him the slightest attention as he lay there, dying.

"A life for a life," murmured Edmund. "My debt is repaid."

Bastion shot Velia a confused look. "What is he talking about?"

But Velia was lost in thought as well, and she immediately came to the conclusion that Edmund must have reached long ago because her upper lip curled in a grimace as she silently grumbled. Edmund picked up "bloody hero" in there.

"You're an _idiot_," she finally growled.

"Velia, if I don't die, that abomination over there won't die either," he explained slowly, "and despite that _thing's _death, this battle can still go wrong for you—or for the Narnians. I'm still not sure whose side you're on anymore."

Velia sighed exasperatedly but looked back up at Bastion.

"Go," she commanded. "Get Susan and Lucy and take them to the Stone Table. Bring back what you find before this fool of a human's soul can move on. This war isn't over yet. _Go._"

Despite not having a clue of what was happening, Bastion nodded once and galloped off. Velia turned back to Edmund and gave him a narrow-eyed glare.

He took a deep breath, and she could hear the rattle in his lungs. "You know, I should be the angry one. You've been lying to me for years."

"Oh, would you just hush?" she muttered quietly, signaling to one of the medic fauns. The creature darted back into the castle and emerged less than a minute later with clean cloths and water. "How are you even still _alive_ right now?"

"Would you prefer that I die faster?" he rasped, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

"If you'd asked me that a year ago, I might have said yes," she groused, pressing some of the cloths against his chest to stem the blood flow. She poured some water into his mouth. "You need to—"

"Conserve my strength? Velia, my aim is to _die_ so _he_ can die too. That's a bit counterproductive."

"No," she said flatly. "You're not dying. Not on my watch."

"Velia—"

"I can stab him to finish the job if you want him to die much quicker."

"That won't work. You need to stab _me_."

"This is ridiculous—"

"Can you just…stop admonishing me and just…let me rest?"

Knowing that she would no longer fight, Edmund sighed and tugged her closer. She slid toward him and cradled his head in her lap.

"You're such an idiot," she whispered.

"I'm only living up to the name you insist on giving me," he replied with a faint smile. He pulled her face close and kissed her gently before wiping away the small smudge of blood on her already-red lips. "So…explain this whole Red Shadow business."

Edmund noticed the glassy sheen in her eyes, and she saw the way his breathing became more labored and his pallor turned even more pale. Not much longer now.

She pursed her lips and swallowed thickly. "No chance of you letting me—"

"No," he cut her off. "Tell me."

She gritted her teeth and then asked. "Didn't you ever notice how the Red Shadow and I were never at the same battles? You'd see _her_, but then you were never able to find me at the same time? It wasn't any coincidence, you know."

As Edmund listened to her ramble and list off all the times the Red Shadow had made an appearance when Velia wasn't there, it all started to fall into place. The familiarity Edmund felt every time he and the Shadow were close, the way she anticipated his every move, the way Velia interacted with him and his army, how the Shadow always manipulated him during battles so as to keep him from fighting with any of the other Narnians, and the way Velia was always on his side. The reason why she chopped off her own finger and threw herself at Peter so Edmund himself wouldn't have to fight him.

She didn't have to explain her past to him anymore as Edmund read between the lines. The only thing she must have genuinely lied about was how crazy she was. She wasn't _really_ psychotic, but to play the part of an evil warrior that would be endearing to the Queen, she had to do it. Edmund understood that.

He would have liked to learn the rest of her story since he only knew some of the middle and up until now, but it seemed that he didn't have much time left. She was tearfully explaining how she'd been trying to poison groups of the Minions to start a civil war that would decimate the entire army enough for the Narnians to gain an upper hand when Edmund's eyes slowly fluttered closed.

* * *

Bastion skidded to a halt in front of what was _supposed_ to be the Stone Table. Susan and Lucy dismounted, wiping the streaks of tears from their faces as they looked around at the thick forest that had invaded the site.

"What happened?" gasped Lucy, pushing aside some of the vines and branches.

"We were here not _two_ days ago. How did these plants grow so quickly?" breathed Susan in disbelief.

The wooden tomb that encased the Stone Table and the Lion within it had been thoroughly obscured by the dense forest.

"There's only one explanation," said Bastion, moving ahead of the women and gently shouldering his way through the underbrush. "Deep magic is at work here, and we are just now seeing the first hints of why Edmund sent us here."

Susan sighed and ran her hands down her face. "I still can't believe you dragged us out here. We should be with him right now. He just got back, and now we're going to lose him all over—"

Lucy set her hand on her sister's shoulder and gave her a meaningful look. "I trust him. He's planned something, and even if we don't know what it is, Edmund is brilliant. Though it may not have seemed like it, I've spoken to Velia, and she's told me about how he's been protecting us for all these years. It hasn't all been on her shoulders. We owe him our trust."

"Look!" cried Bastion.

They'd been moving through the forest, but now the plants themselves began to move of their own accord, forming an arc to let the tree through. As they moved deeper toward the platform, the sounds of squeaking echoed through the tunnel. When they finally reached the edge of the table, they looked up to see mice scrambling down and disappearing into the underbrush.

"What—" gasped Lucy, trying not to jump out of the way and risk stomping on a mouse.

"What were they ding?" asked Susan, taking a step forward once all the mice had passed.

Bastion stepped up beside the two girls, ready to push them out of the way in case something else would run out toward them. "I don't—"

He was suddenly cut off by a massive earthquake that knocked them all down onto the forest floor. A loud _crack_ resounded before the quake finally ceased.

"Are you both all right?!" demanded Bastion.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," said Lucy as he helped her up to her feet.

Susan picked herself up and brushed dirt and leaves off herself. "What on _earth_ is happening?"

"What is happening, Susan Pevensie, is the end of the war."

Susan, Bastion, and Lucy nearly fell back down as the remaining branches and vines and trees parted and receded to reveal Aslan, alive and well, standing atop a massive crack that had torn through the Stone Table.

"B-But how…?" stammered Susan as Aslan leapt down from the table.

The Lion gave her a fond smile, almost magnetically compelling both girls to break out of their shocked stances and dash forward, enveloping Him in a hug.

"That is a tale for another, peaceful time," answered Aslan, flicking His tail at Bastion. "We must return to Cair Paravel."

"Aslan, Edmund—"

The Great Lion didn't miss the tear streaks on both the girls' faces, and He nudged them both affectionately with his muzzle.

"Do not fear, little ones," He rumbled. "Come—a battle still rages."

* * *

It was strange, to say the least.

She'd carried him over her shoulder once before, and she'd gotten in enough tussles with him before to be familiar with his below-average body heat, so it was strange to feel him radiating the same amount of warmth that Peter, Susan, Lucy, or any other warm-blooded creature had. Which made it more _horrifying_ than _strange_ when he began to grow cold in her arms.

She sat there in her own little bubble of peace, continuing to cradle him protectively as the battle raged around her. Because that had been her mission ever since Aslan caught wind of the Pevensies's entrance into Narnia—protect Edmund. That was all Aslan had ever told her to do concerning her entire mission: protect him. Just two words. She'd taken those two words and lived by it.

Yes, she pushed him to battle that first time, but it was solely because Aslan had commanded her to do so. He was going to appear in the fight, and He'd thought that having Edmund there would make it that much easier to break the curse. It just so happened that Edmund there would make it that much easier to break the curse. It just so happened that Edmund was able to save his brother, so it was all for the better. It's not as if any of them honestly knew how the curse would get out of hand upon the Witch's death.

Yes, she fought him as the Red Shadow, but that was purely to keep him from having to attack any of the other Narnians. And it's not like she was intending to kill him. _Naturally_ she held back. She knew his fighting style, could anticipate his movements and thoughts. She played it to her advantage and manipulated all his time. It had all been plotted out. So he may have been singed here and there every so often, but it was all to keep up appearances.

Yes, she projected the character of the psycho, but she was a little bit strange to begin with. True, she'd amped up the charade in the beginning, but that was solely for the Witch's benefit. Only a nutter would lop off her own hand to prove her allegiance, and protecting Edmund meant proving her allegiance to the Witch, so she did it.

For the last three years, her sole duty was to watch over Edmund, and even though a small voice in the back of her mind told her it wasn't her fault—that the curse was more than any one person could handle and that Edmund had, in fact, stabbed himself anyway—she still blamed herself.

His heart had stopped beating two minutes ago, and she'd stopped caring a second after that.

What wrenched her out of her reverie, though, was the ear-splitting, hair-raising, muscle-clenching roar that reverberated across the battlefield and knocked everyone onto their backs.

"Impossible!" shrieked a wraith in disbelief.

If Velia had the inclination to smirk, she would've. _That_ was why the idiot had sent his sisters off. A life for a life indeed.

The Minions froze in fear and confusion long enough for the Narnians to rally one more time. Edmund was dead, and so was their king, but there were still enough of them to eradicate what was left for the Narnians. Unfortunately for them, they were just too stupid to realize that. They were too consumed by the fact that the Great Lion they'd humiliated not two nights ago—the Lion they saw breathed His last with their very eyes—was alive again.

Velia barely registered the utter pandemonium as the Minions who couldn't escape fast enough were quickly cut down, shot down, torn up, or trampled on as Aslan led a stampede of Narnian reinforcements out of the forest near the River Rush. It only took fifteen minutes for the Lion to arrive in the courtyard where Velia and Edmund sat.

The clone had long-since faded into dust and drifted off through the smoke and death-soaked wind. There were no cries of victory or joy as the last of the Minions fell or surrendered. Only the heart-wrenching sobs of the Pevensie girls echoed through the battlefield. They were lying on the ground, curled around their brother, as Velia continued to sit there, refusing to relinquish her hold. Peter, Bastion, and Mason staggered into the courtyard and nearly collapsed at the sight. In spite of their injuries, all three bounded forward, skidding to a stop next to the fallen body of the hero of the Narnian war. It took nearly all of Peter's remaining strength to pull his little brother's body away from Velia and to cradle him against his chest, sobs ripping out of his mouth as tears and apologies spilled onto Edmund's pale, peaceful face.

Velia, her hand still firmly clenched around Edmund's, looked up at Aslan with a blank expression, and He met her stare head-on. The Great Lion stepped forward. Bowing to touch His nose against the crown of Edmund's head, Aslan inhaled deeply and breathed a warm wind against the younger man's face.

And Edmund gasped and opened his eyes.


	17. The Unrequited

**17  
**_**The Unrequited**_

* * *

Velia looked different, that much Edmund could admit. Beyond that, however, words were naught but inaudible babbling or half-baked syllables. After seeing her in nothing but leather armor every day for five years, he had no idea how to react upon seeing her in silk.

"You may want to close your mouth lest you make an even bigger fool of yourself, brother."

Edmund cleared his throat and shifted his feet, glancing at Peter as he came to stand beside him, two goblets of punch in his hands. "I was only—"

"Save it." Peter handed him one with a smirk and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes finding the subject of Edmund's distraction. "Don't bother. Just because we haven't had a proper conversation in several years doesn't mean I'm completely unfamiliar with you anymore."

Edmund scowled down at his cup and took a brief drink. This was his third in the hour, but it still wasn't enough. As happy an event this was, it was still immeasurably awkward for the young man.

The Pevensie's coronation had been the event of centuries. For there in the Great Hall of Cair Paravel—with the ivory roof and the west hall hung with peacock feathers and the eastern door which looked out toward the sea—in the presence of all their friends, under the sound of trumpets, Aslan solemnly crowned the four siblings and led them to the four thrones amid deafening cheers. Resplendent in velvets, silks, and gossamer, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy sat atop the mahogany thrones, their sparkling gold and silver crowns gleaming in the rays of the sunset.

Following the ceremony was a grand feast. Creatures bedecked in their finest danced across the shining ballroom floor or indulged in the dishes produced by only the best of each creature. Laughter rang out through the castle, the predominant noise—the same noise, in fact, that Peter could no longer hold back as he continued to watch his hapless younger brother.

"Are you going to stare at her all night until she finally glares at you hard enough to set you alight?"

"Shut it," grumbled Peter. "Why don't you go harass Susan?"

The two Pevensie men watched their sister glide along the floor in the arms of the Telmarine Prince Caspian, a soft blush on her cheeks.

"She'll take one of her arrows and permanently house it up my nose if I did anything of the sort," said Peter with a slight cringe. "Besides, I'd really rather not start a war with the Telmarines so soon after we've finished this last one."

Edmund nodded in agreement. "Another time then?"

"Certainly."

The two brothers' eyes simultaneously found their youngest sister being twirled about by Mr. Tumnus, her chestnut curls beginning to fall out of the elaborate braids atop her head as she threw her head back and laughed.

"Why aren't you out there?" asked Edmund, jerking his chin out to the dance floor.

Peter glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye and took a sip of his drink. "And pass up a perfect opportunity to make up for the years I wasn't able to tease you into a red-faced mess? Never, Ed."

"Velia did that enough for you, I'd think."

Peter grinned. _One track mind, this one_. "Her teasing is much more different than mine," he pointed out. "And a brother's teasing can't be done by proxy."

"Besides," muttered Edmund, his good mood dampening, "she had more important things to do in that war anyway."

"Velia was key in the war because of how easily and how closely she attached herself to you," said Peter. "She was charged to be your companion, your protector, and your right hand. If it just so happened that she brother-ed you the way I would, then all the better."

"How did that woman even get caught up in that war?" Edmund persisted, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

"Aslan brought her back to the castle one day," answered Peter. "She'd singlehandedly ambushed a detachment of the Witch's army and had successfully razed that section of the forest and the dark creatures along with it, but not without a severe amount of injuries on her part as well.."

Edmund grimaced and took a long sip of his drink. "So she really _is_ just as crazy as she portrays herself to be."

Peter chuckled darkly and shook his head. "But instead of some bloodstained grin, she dropped to one knee, her blade bowed to Aslan. And she addressed him as both a lady and a warrior. The woman is filled with surprises, Edmund. Velia…has her peculiarities, idiosyncrasies, but she played a role for the Queen and her army, solely to protect you. She's done her best to never lie to you."

Technically, she'd lied by omission, but Edmund didn't mention it. She was a spy, and spies had to blatantly lie about their identities, didn't they? The fact that she'd never lied to him outright in the years they'd known each other was more than impressive, and an endeavor not many could promise and fulfill.

But there was just one thing he was worried about.

"What about her past?" asked Edmund. "Is she really the last Vasceran?"

Peter's frown burrowed deeper into his face, and he dropped his gaze to the floor, studying the shimmering surface. "Five full battalions of the Queen's army raided the Vasceris Forest long before we arrived here. She'd been preparing for war, and Vasceris wood burns the hottest. It's the best for forging weapons. The Vascerans did their best to protect their home, and they held it for as long as they could. However, the Queen decided that if she couldn't have it, no one could, and so she ordered the forest to be burned. The army trapped all the Vascerans within the forest, and hearing their cries, the fire spirits woke to subdue the fire. They were too late. The wood burned hot and fast and long. By the time the spirits arrived, only Velia and her brothers were left, hidden deep underground by their parents. The spirits tried to save her brother, but they were too late once more—smoke inhalation, I think. As an apology and a promise that this would never happen again, the fire spirits bestowed her with the gift of fire. It wasn't just a means of survival—it was a means of protection from ever suffering the same fate as her people."

Edmund had to put his glass down on the table nearby, as his hand was shaking too much.

"By the time Aslan found her, a few months after you were apprenticed to the Witch, she was a deadly force to begin with. She'd set off on her own, picking off important bits and necessary pieces of the Queen's army like some thief in the night. She freely offered her services to the Narnian cause, and He returned to camp with her. She quickly became an asset—you had firsthand experience with that. As the Red Shadow, she was invaluable, but because she arrived with her mask in place, only Aslan, Bastion, Mason, Susan, Lucy, and I knew her true identity. She simply became known as the Red Shadow among the Narnians, which played well with her future plans. Seeing an opportunity, she offered her services as a spy. You know how that turned out, obviously."

Edmund frowned, remembering Velia's random appearance at the Witch's castle, and then he stiffened. "How did you—do you know where she went and when she was assigned the mission to bring back Lucy's finger? I know she hacked off her own instead, but she returned bloodied and broken to the point of near-death."

Peter winced and downed the rest of his drink. "It wasn't because of any magic on our part. She came back to Cair Paravel and rounded up a few loyal centaurs. We only found after the fact, but apparently, she'd recruited them to beat her up in the stables. They were highly adverse to the idea, of course, and as soon as she left, they reported back to Aslan. He had been…less than pleased, to say the least, but He'd understood her tactics. That's when we sent Mason as a sort of…supplement to her more violent, drastic tendencies."

Edmund tried to swallow the horror at exactly what Velia had put herself through.

He couldn't.

"How many spies did you have on the Witch's side anyway," he asked lightly, an attempt to change the subject.

"Just Velia and Mason. We didn't want to risk any more especially with the Witch still around. The two of them had been more than enough anyway," answered Peter. Then he added shrewdly, "Of course, we also had _you _tampering with your own battle strategies."

Edmund smiled faintly and shrugged.

Peter chuckled, clapping the younger man on the shoulder and squeezing. Edmund turned to face his brother, taking in the clear blue eyes, the weariness of war that had begun to fade at the victory and reunion of his family—the same weariness that Edmund knew he himself sported. After years of war, regrets, and sadness, they both understood the others' position. Peter understood Edmund's figurative and literal battles and warring allegiances; Edmund understood Peter's unwavering faith in the eventual reunion of their family and the torment he'd suffered as he watched his little brother fight on the other side of a war. They understood the sacrifices each had made, the beliefs they'd held, and the sheer pigheadedness they applied to each of their respective endeavors. They understood _each other_. They were only three years apart, but as they stood there, smirking at each other mischievously, they were equals.

"Now I suggest you go ask that woman to dance," said Peter, patting Edmund's shoulder one more time and releasing him, "before _I do_." He winked and walked off, disappearing into the throng of nymphs and naiads.

Edmund sighed, downed the rest of his punch, and found Velia amidst the crowds again. She stood with her back to him, her long, dark hair pinned to the back of head in intricate braids and curled, loose tendrils that brushed her bare shoulders. Her head swiveled back and forth to follow the sharp banter between Bastion and Sorren. And then she turned, looking over her shoulder and meeting his gaze almost instantaneously. She smiled and cocked an eyebrow at him, amused and confused, and he took a step forward.

He adjusted his blue and silver brocaded vest as he continued stepping forward until he had crossed the room, his gaze zeroing in on the dark-haired woman in deep violet silk.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," interrupted Edmund as she and the group turned to look at him.

"Only if you've got a good excuse, Your Grace," said Mason, canines bared in a smile.

"From the looks of him, I'd say he's got one of the best excuses," said Bastion.

Mason chuckled. "The _only_ valid excuse, I'd say."

"Let him be," chided Sorren. "He should be able to say his peace."

Edmund turned away from them, facing Velia completely as he bowed better than any gentleman. "My lady, may I have this dance?"

"Be still my heart," said Mason, earning a few barely-stifled snorts from the two centaurs. "The statue dances?"

Edmund rolled his eyes. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So will you accept the offer before he turns back into stone?"

The corners of Velia's smile curled higher. "I suppose I should indulge you, on your one night of freedom."

"You really should," quipped Mason, sending a cheeky wink in Edmund's direction, "before he turns back into a scowling gargoyle."

Velia laughed and waved off Mason's incessant teasing—an allowance made only because of the deeper-rooted friendship between the three of them that had lingered on the Witch's side. Edmund threw a mock-glare at the others and then grinned down at her as he led her out onto the dance floor. They easily fell into the waltz, twirling around the floor with the rest of the couples as they all unconsciously moved in tandem to form elegant patterns along the gleaming marble floor. Though he obeyed the formal rules of the dance, he held her just a bit closer, titled his head toward her just a bit nearer, and breathed her scent in a bit deeper. She was warm in his arms, and in spite of the fact that his outfit was stifling, the atmosphere joyous but heavy, he only wanted her closer.

But for sake and propriety's as well, he would obey the rules as much as he possibly could…and bend them as far as they would go.

"Land sakes, Son of Adam, when did you ever have time to learn how to dance?" asked Velia, impressed as he twirled her around.

Edmund shrugged. "I'm a man of many talents, thank you."

"Susan taught him a long time ago!" called Lucy as she and Mr. Tumnus danced past.

Velia burst out laughing as Edmund glared at his little sister, who'd swept away in a flurry of emerald green silks and giggles.

"Any other fabricated talents you feel inclined to brag about, _Your Majest_y?" she asked pointedly.

He rolled his eyes. "You really don't have to call me that, you know."

"So you weren't just crowned King Edmund the Just?" she asked, squeezing his hand. He looked at her face and saw nothing but kindness. No…manic glee or furious bloodless or mischievous humor. "You are _still_ adverse to the title? Even in the face of the fact that you actually deserve this one?"

He smiled briefly, painfully. "I wanted power once—wanted to be a leader, feared and respected. Now, it's the _last_ thing I want."

"You'll never be satisfied, will you?" she asked knowingly. "You'll always sit in your position and bemoan it."

"Velia—"

"No, as a boy, you wanted power. When you achieved it, you no longer wanted it. You wanted your freedom. Now that you've achieved that, you don't want the responsibilities that come with liberty," she explained. There was no bitterness or sign of rebuke in her voice. "What do you _honestly _want, Edmund?"

He blinked. "I want to work for something," were the words that slipped from between his lips, and he had no idea where it came from. But it sounded…_right_. "I want to achieve something for myself instead of having it be given to me. The Witch gave me power; Aslan gave me freedom. They were handed to me."

She nodded once but then cocked her head to the side. "Why look a gift horse in the mouth?"

He snorted. "You stick to that kind of perspective, and you wind up with a bad sense of entitlement."

Velia grinned and shook her head in amazement. "My, my, my—who are you and what have you done with Edmund Pevensie? You sound _nothing_ like the young boy your siblings described. Selfish, bitter, taciturn, temperamental, lazy, lying—where is that boy now?"

One of his eyebrows shot up. "You want him back?"

"No," she answered plainly, and he saw an entirely different kind of fire burning in the darkness of her eyes. "I want you to remember him and compare him to what you just said. You have come such a long and hard way. I'd say you've done nothing but work for what you've achieved. You gained power by betraying your family—that still constitutes as work. You gained clemency by…_psychotically fighting yourself_ in a war to protect the family you turned your back on. And you gained the crown with which you were presented because of the man you've become along the way. You're not entitled to anything but a smack in the face for your dim foolishness in thinking that you're less than what you really are. Honestly, Edmund. I can't keep running around after you, making sure you've got your head on straight. You've got to learn how to do that yourself."

"Will you, though?" he blurted out, completely losing his cool and stopping in the middle of the floor.

Thankfully, she was able to mask his slip with the voluminous folds of her dress, but her quick thinking to save his pride didn't detract from the wide-eyed expression on her face. The expression that made him immediately want to reach into his mouth, rip out his vocal cords, and smack himself with it.

"Will I what?"

No going back now. "Stay."

She blinked, and then the shock melted off her face to form a warm smile. "You really want to keep a maniac like me around?"

He grinned and tightened his grip around her waist. "I need some form of entertainment, don't I?"

Her eyebrow rose again. "Entertainment? Last time I checked, you were the one orchestrating the grand run-around that was so entertaining."

"Then you're the fool who danced to my orchestrating."

"Don't make me hit you. You may bleed on your fineries."

Edmund laughed and spun her under one hand before tugging her back into his embrace. "It's too bad all the Minions are gone. Now you can't channel your misplaced aggression."

"I can still spar with you, Edmund," she reminded him.

"And you will, as always," he agreed. And then he sobered. "You _will_, won't you? You'll stay?"

She watched him watch her, studied the way his eyes bore into hers as if he was about to perform some ancient magic to rattle around in her brain if he peered into her pupils long enough. She watched the way his mouth sat—neither smiling nor frowning. He merely waited for her to answer with an open expression. Open…vulnerable.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Then I'll stay."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

* * *

They danced two more songs before he was called to the centaurs and she was beckoned by the Great Lion of the East. Edmund politely escorted her to Aslan's side before bowing low and striding off, casting one last look over his shoulder at her.

Unease settled low in her belly as Aslan led her to the open balcony doors, the night cool and calm. The breeze ruffled His mane and blew tendrils of her hair across her face. He stopped next to the carved stone bench and sat back on His haunches, and she skirted around the bench to sit on the edge beside him.

When he didn't seem forthcoming, she broke the silence in typical Velia manner. "This_ air_ is simply wonderful, Aslan."

The Lion chuckled, low and deep. "That it is, child. Absolutely magical."

She smiled and adjusted her skirts around herself.

"I am sorry," He rumbled softly.

She frowned and turned to look at him inquisitively. "For what?"

"For what happened at the Stone Table," He answered.

She grimaced and she reached out to touch the exact spot on His side that she'd stabbed Him. "A little warning would've been nice."

"But it wouldn't have made it any easier," He said knowingly. "I decided not to let you stew over it."

"Thanks for that, I suppose."

They lapsed into another comfortable silence, just sitting there and breathing in the ocean air. It had been the same exact thing they'd done all those years ago when He had first brought her to Cair Paravel. And He proceeded to ask her the same question He'd asked her before as well.

"Are you all right, Velia?"

She took her time answering, wanting to give Him the most truthful answer she could come to terms with. And she smiled at the honesty that fell from her lips.

"Yes, I believe I am."

"Is it because of Edmund?"

"Please don't beat about the bush, Aslan," she quipped sarcastically, eliciting another chuckle out of the Lion. "But, yes, ultimately it is because of Edmund. That crazy man has been the primary source of my stress for the last several years. Now that everything's been sorted and he's happy, I'm…_fine_."

"But are you _happy_?" He persisted.

Velia stood slowly, her dress ruffling softly as she walked back to the door of the balcony. She stood just out of sight of the partygoers, hidden in the shadows. Aslan padded forward to follow her line of sight. When He saw that her eyes were fixed on the young man previously mentioned, the Lion sighed wearily.

"Do you care for him?"

"Is it such a stupid thing to do?" she murmured softly, as if she was musing aloud. "Is it such a bad thing? After all the time we've spent together, I would think that it was a sort of…natural progression of our relationship."

"I never meant to put your feelings for Edmund in a bad light, dear heart," assured Aslan gently, "but you must understand the risks."

She clenched her teeth together and kept her gaze firmly trained on Edmund as he frowned in concentration at whatever Bastion and Sorren were discussing with him. Battle strategies, most likely. Edmund only ever rubbed his jaw like that when he was mulling over battle strategies.

It was several minutes before she finally spoke again. She was thankful that Aslan had remained silent, but the ire that had festered because of the fact that He _had_ to bring it up on tight of all nights battled with her gratefulness. "He has to leave…doesn't he?"

The Lion nodded. "He will always have a home in Narnia, but for now, he must return to his world."

"Will he come back?"

"One day, yes."

"But…?"

"But the passage of time is very different in other spaces of life. a few years in his world could mean a thousand here or merely a few days. Nothing is certain."

She swallowed and leaned against the frame of the large balcony doors, the stone cooling her bare arm. "You couldn't give me a day?"

The Lion regarded her with sadness in his eyes. He stepped closer to her and nudged her shoulder with His muzzle affectionately. "Would it have made a difference?"

She petted his nose. "Ignorance is bliss. One day would've made all the difference."

* * *

"So, my young king," said a female centaur, Erid. She stepped up to stand next to Edmund as Bastion turned to bicker with Sorren again. "Now that you are here, what is your first plan of action?"

"Sleep," replied Edmund wryly. "I think everyone here deserves a day of rest after everything we've been through, don't you agree?"

"But what of war reparations?"

"We can't fix Narnia if we don't quite have our heads on straight—we'd only make things worse. We need time to…grieve the lost, set down axes and swords, and just _rest_."

The centaur smiled down at him and nodded. "For a moment, I found it amusingly ironic that _you_ had been crowed 'The Just,' but now I understand completely."

Edmund winced. "It _is_ fairly ironic, though."

Erid laughed, throwing her long blond hair over her shoulder and stamping her front hooves in amusement. He'd be getting teased over this for a long time.

"How does it feel, Your Majesty?" she asked once her laughter subsided. "Being completely free of the Witch after so many years?"

Edmund grinned. "I feel light enough to fly," he answered in a rare moment of candidness. "I expected to be shunned, and yet you all have accepted me so warmly. I'm not as cold and pale as death, burdened with cursed magic. I have my family back. I'm happy."

"Will that family grow soon?"

The young king literally choked on air. "W-What?" he spluttered in disbelief.

Erid eyed him amusedly. "You have long-since been of age, and the Last Vasceran is very beautiful. According to reports, she had been your constant companion for the last several years. It is most understandable for you to choose her as your bride."

When Edmund seemed to be completely frozen in place, the centaur continued. Her mother had said she needed to reign in her bad habit of rambling, but sometimes it was just too much fun.

"Granted, you would be the first of your siblings, and usually the eldest would marry before the rest. However, circumstances must be dealt with accordingly. I'm sure you and the young Red Shadow aren't so patient as to wait for King Peter to court a young lady and Queen Susan to be courted—though the latter seems to be well on the way with that Caspian fellow. To be frank, it's still a little strange to see Velia as…Velia. We'd all gotten used to the mute Red Shadow, so to see that her wit is even sharper than her swords and knives and her demeanor is as warm as her fire is blazing…it's disorienting, to say the least, but from what I've heard, read, and observed about you, I believe it's a smart match. If you don't mind me saying so."

"Well, it seems that you'd say so regardless of whether or not I minded," choked out Edmund with an embarrassed smile. His eyes found the subject of their conversation again as she walked back into the ballroom alongside Aslan. "And if you don't mind, I appreciate you keeping this conversation to yourself.

His tone was friendly but unyielding. He didn't need this kind of news spreading around like wildfire. They had kissed, and she promised to stay. That hardly meant anything was official, and the last thing he wanted was to pressure her in any way—_especially_ in that wedding-bells-and-white-gown kind of way.

But the image of Velia in all white would forever be burned in his mind.

"Be that as it may, I heartily agree with that conclusion, Erid."

* * *

Yet it never happened. It was true Velia promised to stay and not disappear into the far recesses of the land like she'd once errantly mused aloud. She kept her promise and become an invaluable member of the Kings' and Queens' court and army. But that was it.

She didn't encourage any of Edmund's advances. In actuality, she wasn't near enough for him to advance at all. Nothing shy of jumping up on his throne and proposing to her in the middle of a council meeting would work. She didn't avoid him, but she always managed to interact with him only when they were in a group. She was much the same as she'd always been—dry, sarcastic, and snarky to the point of hilarity. Lucy and Peter, in fact, were her regular victims of hysterics whenever Velia got in the mood to mercilessly tease and harass Edmund.

_But that was it._

For three years, she remained nothing but a friend.

So when he and his family went off on the hunt for the White Stag, she bid him goodbye in the same manner as she did the others—a hug and kiss on the cheek. And when he tumbled out of the wardrobe and into the spare room, he looked back at the dark, closed back panel with an ache in his heart. Because what he thought had been the warm, solid foundation of love had actually been nothing but unrequited.


	18. The Enchanted

**18  
**_**The Enchanted**_

* * *

Time did not slow for Edmund. It moved just the same as it ever did. Peter, Susan, and Lucy were sympathetic, having been very much aware of Edmund's affections for the beautiful, steadfastly-loyal warrior, but as they all had left loved ones back in Narnia, they couldn't comfort him with lies and reassurances that even _they_ couldn't believe. Edmund, on the other hand, managed well enough at first. Having been thrust back into his ten year old body and in a world where he was hardly of any importance, he had bigger things to worry about than the love of his life, who didn't even return his feelings—like being left behind in a magical realm.

He avoided thinking about it in those terms, though, since it only served to thoroughly depress him every time the thought crossed his mind.

So when they suddenly found themselves about to board a train to school, only to wind up frolicking on a beach, he let himself grin and laugh because he'd found his second chance. He would find her again. Unfortunately, one can only imagine the weary sadness that enveloped his lungs and heart when he saw Cair Paravel in ruins and heard that 1,300 years had passed. And when Reepicheep solemnly reported that the Red Shadow had gone missing a week after their disappearance, he steeled himself against the despair and prepared for battle in Aslan's How. After all, she promised to stay _to him_, not _for him_. He was good enough in his grammar to know that one meant verbal direction and the other causation. He understood that she must not have had any more reason to keep her from pursuing her original plan after he'd left and thus departed. He expected her to have at least…kept in touch with their friends instead of dropping off the map, but this was Velia.

Once the Pevensies returned to England, he let himself mourn for a few days. Mourn the good friends who'd passed away so many centuries ago, mourn the golden days of their rule, and mourn the best friend to whom he'd never said his goodbyes. But he hoped that wherever she'd gone, she'd been happy and had died peacefully. But he knew Velia better than that. One night, he ruefully mused aloud that she would rather be crushed under the weight of the Stone Table before she let herself die without going down in a fight. Peter, Susan, and Lucy knowingly agreed. For all her deceptions, Velia could genuinely be crazy.

So in order to put her memory at rest, Edmund seized the opportunity to seek out any record of her when he and Lucy were unceremoniously delivered to the _Dawn Trader_ with Cousin Eustace. He even went as far as to spontaneously as Ramandu for any sort of knowledge of what had happened to the legendary Red Shadow, but even the star had no idea. His last resort was the one he dreaded the most, for sometimes the zeal of a question pales in comparison to the fear of the answer.

"Aslan?" called Edmund before he stepped through the wall of water. Lucy had already walked through with the Eustace.

The Great Lion regarded him knowingly. "Yes, Edmund?"

The young man swallowed and stepped back toward the Lion. "If I'm never to come here again, may I ask one favor of you?"

Aslan nodded. "Ask and I will give to you."

"Will you tell me…what happened to Velia?"

The Lion sat back on his haunches to begin His tale. "She spearheaded the search party that had been set out to retrieve you. When she tracked the four of you and found the lamp post, she ordered the search to be called off and announced to the Narnians that you had unexpectedly been called away and that one day, you would return. Apparently, you'd told her the tale of how she stumbled into Narnia, and her guess that you'd returned home had been correct. Questions abounded, naturally, but that same day, she left the castle and was never heard from again."

A tale that had been condensed beyond reason, apparently.

"What happened to her after that?" persisted Edmund, rubbing his jaw anxiously.

"She found a new home."

Edmund suppressed an impatient glare at Aslan's simple answer. "Was she happy?" he asked, trying to mask the exasperation in his voice.

Aslan nodded. "Very much, yes."

"Did she marry?"

"Yes?"

"Did she have childrend?"

"I'm sure she did."

Edmund sighed and rubbed both hands over his face. "Well…good, then. Th-Thank you, Aslan. Goodbye."

The Lion watched him with a strange gleam in His eyes—one that left Edmund puzzled and suspicious long after he stepped into the water and was washed out of the painting.

He reconciled himself with the fact that she'd found someone worth spending her life with _in the same realm as her_ and that she'd lived a happy and full life. What kind of friend was he if he begrudged Velia her happiness? He'd been petty once, but not anymore. And he wouldn't dare entertain those thoughts in fear of her vengeance in the afterlife if she ever found out.

But it still stung. He still missed her. He still loved her.

A love like that—born in the midst of a spiritual, physical, and emotional war—was not something that would die easily. The wound festered, became infected, caused him fevers, night sweats, and nightmares.

But the pain in his chest eased.

The passage of time was a balm for the gaping hole in his chest that had been torn open when he left Narnia the first time. Eventually, as he got older, he was able to bring himself to go on dates with the pretty birds who managed to catch his eye. He even had two steady girlfriends—not at the same time, of course. He graduated from university early—the concepts may have been more medieval in Narnia, but the principle was the same in the modern world. He was doing well in life.

Nevertheless, the ache in his heart seemed to be there to stay.

* * *

There were three other things Edmund could have been doing instead of standing in the middle of that garden party with a cup of too-sweet punch in one hand and his dignity in the other.

1: He could be sitting on a sofa or armchair with a good novel, textbook, or even a bloody _atlas_.

2: He could be in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, a pie, or any sort of extremely complicated, foreign dessert that would most likely end in a small fire or serious indigestion.

3: He could be off in the corner, armed with a shovel, ready to dig out his own escape route.

He _really_, really didn't want be at that garden party. He'd gone through a litany of grievances against his apparently-mandatory attendance to Susan's ridiculous event, exhausting his sister's patience and his own oratory skills. He'd used every excuse to keep from attending, but Susan was not to be swayed. She had the backing of almost everyone in the family—to the point of Edmund threatening disownment. His mother had already expressed her worry about his social life, Susan was worried about his social life, Lucy was worried about how quiet he'd been lately, and even Peter had expressed a certain amount of nervousness concerning Edmund's unsociable tendencies.

The truth was that Edmund was perfectly fine. He wasn't in need of social interaction or familial intervention. He simply wanted to be left alone. Unfortunately, everyone else took that to mean he needed the exact opposite, hence the reason Susan and Lucy stormed into his apartment, forced him into a light summer suit, and dragged him to the charity event. It wasn't that he was cruel and heartless; he'd just rather do the charity work itself rather than schmooze for it.

So that was another mark against the party.

A major reason why he simply refused to attend was the fact that this was, indeed, _Susan's_ garden party, which meant her little friends would be flitting around him, attempting to flirt or catch his eye or interact with him in some manner. He'd told his family countless times that he did not need matchmaking, but that didn't seem to have any sort of bearing on their decisions. God forbid they listen to his desires.

The biggest and most influential reason why he wanted to throw his punch into the fountain, flip a table, and then storm out of the party was that today was not a day to cross him. He was not in the mood or the right state of mind to cope with people in general.

"Could you at least _smile_ and not look like you're about to snap and go on a psychotic killing spree?" hissed Susan, coming up beside him with a perfectly-positioned grin for any guests looking her way.

"I could," replied Edmund flatly, his expression unyielding.

"For goodness' sake, Ed," she huffed, looking away and shaking her head.

"Lighten up," said Lucy, suddenly appearing at Edmund's other shoulder. "You're twenty-three years old. Live a little."

"You do realize that we are _all _technically twenty-six years older than our actual ages?" he observed blandly.

"All the more reason for you to live a little, old man," said Lucy with a cheeky grin. "Not long before you pass on yet, eh?"

Usually, he'd handle her teasing with the expertise of an older brother, but something about that comment in combination with his preexisting mood of the day resulted in a deep-seated irritation that festered even worse than before. His temper was short, his patience thin.

"One hour," growled Edmund. He was making a conscious effort to keep from crushing the punch glass in his hand. "You have _one_ _hour_ of my time, and then I am _leaving._ I have better things to do than clomp around and make lame, stilted conversation with the vapid—"

"Better to do?" scoffed Susan. "Like what? Alphabetize your books? Play chess with yourself? _Sleep_?"

"All of the above would be much more intellectually stimulating than talking with some of your friends," said Edmund, watching a group of men he recognized loping toward him. Polo players that'd been in Susan's year, he remembered.

"Be nice," commanded Susan.

"Remember your manners, at least," added Lucy.

They both patted his shoulders and walked off arm-in-arm to mingle with the other guests.

Hell.

"Oi! Edwin!"

What he would've given for a spear… "It's Edmund, actually, Colin."

"Oh, right, right!" exclaimed the burly redhead boisterously. What he lacked in memory, he certain made up in enthusiasm as he shook Edmund's hand. "How've you been? Heard you graduated early!"

"Ickle Eddie's a genius, eh?" said a blond, jabbing Edmund in the shoulder. What was his name again? Andrew? Adrian? _Adoniram?_

"What can I say?" Edmund shrugged coolly. "We all have our talents."

"Oh, but Eddie, there's so much more to life than school, you know? You gotta get out there in the world!" said A-_something_ patronizingly.

Edmund nodded politely. "Of course, and I strive to be able to successfully maneuver my way through the world with the knowledge I gleaned from my studies. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I just spotted a young lady to whom I haven't spoken in several years." He shook one random man's hand and handed him his punch glass, patting his shoulder. "It was nice seeing you all again. Cheers."

Edmund turned and walked off as calmly as he could, his eye twitching uncontrollably all the while. There was no girl, of course, but he knew if he continued to stay with those men, the snark and sarcasm he'd picked up from Velia would be resurfacing in full-force.

"Oh, look, Dinah! There's Edmund!"

How do all these people _know_ him?!

A gaggle of young ladies suddenly rushed up to him, practically drowning him in an attack of pungent perfumes that stung his nose and made his eyes water.

"Hello, Edmund, darling," greeted the brunette—Nancy? Norah? Nadine?-flirtatiously. "How are you?"

"Good, good," choked out Edmund as cordially as possible since she leaned forward and pecked him on the cheeks, fully shrouding him with the cloying stench of her perfume. "I'm good."

"How is that one girl you've been seeing? Victoria, her name was?" asked another girl.

"Sarah, don't ask him about that!" trilled a girl at an unholy octave. "They ended things not two months ago. Right, Edmund?"

It was all he could do to nod and keep from grimacing. He preferred dealing with men rather than women—he was accustomed to men's cologne, at least.

"Ladies!" Edmund nearly passed out in relief as he heard the voice of his older brother coming up behind him. "Dinah, Sarah, Laura, Naomi—how nice to see you again!"

"Peter!"

"Hello, Peter!

"Good evening," said Peter, clapping a hand on Edmund's shoulder and grinning down at the girls charmingly. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Of course, Peter!"

"It's been wonderful!"

"Absolutely smashing!"

Peter beamed at them. "Brilliant! I'm sorry, ladies, but please excuse us. There is someone back there that hasn't seen Edmund in _years_, and he's very excited to catch up." He gripped Edmund's shoulder tighter and began towing him backward, throwing apologetic smiles back at the simpering girls all the while.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, _thank you_," Edmund nearly sang in relief as they strode away, blinking the burn out of his eyes and taking in deep lungfuls of the clean night air.

"You, little brother, managed to fight a war against yourself without completely losing your cool, but you come back here and talk to a few people for less than five minutes and already you're bracing yourself to break off a branch and start beating people away," chortled Peter.

"It's only because there was already one raging psycho in the castle. I decided I was better off leaving all the manic fury to her," answered Edmund, rubbing his forehead.

Peter frowned, and Edmund was just a little bit comforted by the fact that his older brother didn't look at him with pity. Just the same sadness.

"I…I'm sorry for bringing it up, Edmund," said Peter gently.

"But I've got to move on, I know, I know," finished Edmund bitterly, waving his hand dismissively. "I—"

"I wasn't going to say that," interrupted Peter. "I know what today is."

"Well, it's the same thing Susan's been saying all these yea—wait, what?" Edmund froze and stared at Peter warily.

"It's Velia's birthday."

Edmund stiffened, his muscles tensing in anxiety.

That was unexpected. Well, not that it was Velia's birthday, but rather that Peter managed to remember it.

"I'll tell Susan you're not feeling well, all right?" offered Peter. "Go home. Go…go rest."

A muscle in Edmund's jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth together and nodded. Peter patted him on the shoulder and walked off, leaving Edmund next to the small fountain.

He tore his eyes away from the pathetic little excuse of a garden ornament to frown up at the crescent moon and stars. He studied the little pinpricks of light, finding the occasional constellation in the stars and vaguely remembering how vastly different the patterns were in the Narnian sky.

"Happy birthday," whispered Edmund. Then he turned, sighed, and headed out of the garden.

* * *

"_Do you promise?"_

_Velia could only roll her eyes and smile ruefully. "I can't do _that_, but I'll certainly do my best."_

"_Then I, too, will do my best."_

"_As you should," she said almost chidingly, patting Phillip the horse and stroking his mane. "You _are_ the king's mount. The responsibility is quite literally on your back."_

"_I don't know. I'm getting on my years," hedged Phillip._

_Velia growled and shook her head. "All _right_, I promise not to brood or look in any way melancholy today."_

_Phillip whinnied softly, a laugh. "Then I will promise to keep him safe, as usual."_

_Voices wafted into the main stables, and Velia checked Phillip's saddle one more time._

"_Velia!" boomed Peter excitedly._

"_Does this mean you're coming with us then?" asked Lucy, throwing an arm around the older woman's shoulders and squeezing._

"_No," replied Velia. "I was just here to saddle the horses and chat with Phillip a bit."_

"_I had to greet the birthday girl after all," said Phillip._

"_Did you convince her to come?" asked Susan, patting Phillip before heading to her own speckled mare. _

"_No, unfortunately, she is staunch in her position," answered Phillip. _

"_As I have been for the last few years," added Velia._

"_But it's the _White Stag_!" said Lucy. "He'll grant you any one wish if you manage to catch him—it'll be a perfect birthday present!"_

"_Good thing I have no need for such a thing," said Velia, still brushing Phillip's mane. "I'm fine as I am, Lucy. You know me."_

"_Yes, yes, your tradition of subdued and borderline-isolated birthdays is notorious in Narnia," said Peter. _

"_I simply don't enjoy large crowds," said Velia. "I've already given you all the greatest of allowances by letting you actually throw me a party tonight. Leave me to my traditions until then, please?"_

"_Velia, _please_ come!" pleaded Lucy, wrapping an arm around the older woman's waist and trying to lead her to the stables._

"_Lucy Pevensie, either release me or see that pretty riding dress _charred_," said Velia with a smile just small enough to make everyone question if she was really joking or not. " You know I don't like going out on my birthday."_

"_But it's supposed to be a day of celebration!" protested Susan, her hands on Velia's shoulders, pushing her as Lucy pulled._

_But Velia wasn't the Red Shadow for no reason. Rolling her eyes, she sighed and then deftly twisted out of their hold. "Then by all means, _you_ go celebrate. I'll just be here."_

_Susan groaned exasperatedly. "But it's your _birthday_. We can't just leave you here."_

_Velia nimbly sidestepped Lucy's attempt to grab her again. "Exactly! It's_ my_ birthday. I put up with all of you every other day of the year. Can't you give me one day's respite?"_

"_Oh, that just stings now, love. Do you really hate us that much?" demanded Peter, feigning hurt as he and Edmund strode up to the women. _

"_Hate is such a mild world to how strongly I feel," sighed Velia dramatically._

_The four siblings laughed, knowing that this was a battle they'd lost for the last three years and would most likely _never_ win in the future. And yet their constant defeat never meant they'd stop._

"_Go on," said Velia, shooing them away. "If you're so keen on celebrating my birthday, go…fetch me the White Stag as a present."_

"_It'd be so much more fun if you came with us," insisted Lucy. "Won't you please just let up this year and come with us? Please? I'll—I'll leave your hair alone for a week if you do!"_

_The others laughed at the youngest Pevensie's fascination with Velia's long, thick hair and her incessant need to play with it all the time—running her fingers through it, braiding it, brushing it, tying ribbons into it, tying flowers into it, etc. This obviously meant no end to Velia's discomfort, having long been deprived of normal female interaction that didn't involve frightened and horrified screams at the demon who could wield fire. Having girls _like_ her was strange for Velia. _

"_Tempting as that may be, I can always cut it," Velia shot back with a wry smile. _

"_Lies!" barked Lucy. "You love your hair as much as I do."_

"_Oh, Lucy, just go." Velia rolled her eyes and laughed. "I'll be perfectly happy here."_

"_You heard the lady," announced Edmund, nudging his sisters and brother away. "Let her have her peace before you thrust her into the spotlight at the party tonight."_

_Velia blanched and grimaced, eliciting another round of laughter from the kings and queens. "Oh, all right," sighed Lucy in defeat before returning to Velia to squeeze the older girl in a hug. "Fine, we'll go. _And _we'll bring the White Stag just for you."_

"_A magical present for a magical young lady," chimed Susan as she took her turn hugging the birthday girl. "Promise not to hide when we try to find you for the party tonight?"_

_Velia snorted but nodded anyway. "Promise."_

_Peter stepped forward and tapped his cheek pointedly until Velia rolled her eyes and reached up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Then he grabbed her hand and twirled her around before pulling her into a bone-crushing embrace._

"_You sure you don't want to come? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," prodded Peter._

_Velia smirked. "Then I suggest you hurry and saddle up before you miss it."_

_Peter scowled playfully before dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "Happy birthday."_

_She smiled and stepped out of his embrace with a parting jab to his sternum. Her smile broadened and warmed even more as Edmund pulled her close and gently wrapped her in his arms._

"_You'll be okay?" he murmured softly, knowing the full reason as to why she enjoyed her solitude on her birthday of all days._

_She nodded almost imperceptibly against his shoulder. "It's not as bad as it was before," she answered, her voice muffled against his cloak._

"_But?" he prompted gently._

_She took a deep breath, inhaling his familiar scent deeply. "But I still miss my family, Edmund."_

"_You want me to stay with you?" he offered, his tone sounding more pleading than anything—as if he honestly would rather stay with her than leave. "You can tell me more stories about them."_

_She almost gave in—_almost_. She would turn down anyone else who offered to accompany her in her self-imposed quarantine, but when Edmund offered, she was sorely and painfully tempted to let him._

_But she didn't._

"_No, that's all right," she muttered. "But thank you all the same."_

"_Happy birthday," he whispered against her temple._

_She closed her eyes for a second too long, held onto him a bit too tightly, and definitely muttered her thanks a little too breathlessly. He released her long enough to exchange pecks on the cheek before he hugged her again. This time, she _definitely_ gripped him too tightly. He grinned at her one more time and then walked off to the teasing of his siblings._

_She'd promised Aslan not to let things get any further for both hers and Edmund's sakes, and she tried her best without completely pulling away from him. She managed to maintain their friendly relationship, but it was obvious she wanted something more than that. Aslan had asked her not to pursue a romantic relationship because it would ultimately break both their hearts once he left, and she'd held true to the Lion. But that promise conflicted with the one she'd made to Edmund himself. He'd asked her for a loaded promise, and she would be lying to him if she feigned ignorance of the gravity of his request. When she promised to stay, she promised a lot of unspoken things as well. _

_The longer she kept both promises, the risk of breaking one of them grew exponentially. That was the thing about promises. Make too many, and you wind up not being able to keep them at all. _

_She watched the four royal siblings round the corner, throwing her final waves. She stood there for a few minutes after they disappeared before she finally turned and walked away._

* * *

Edmund managed to cross the garden without any more of Susan's friends, Lucy, or Susan herself. Then again, he'd practiced his old skills by ducking behind the bushes, sneaking past groups, and dodging errant glances, but that was beside the point.

He finally neared the wooden arch with the ivy and fairy lights before he paused, grimaced, and seriously contemplated diving behind the rosebushes some ten meters away. A young woman stood near the arch with her back to Edmund as she peered up at the sky.

Susan had posted guards. Once a queen, always a queen.

One step—he took _one step_—toward the roses before remembering he'd been a bloody king and then steeling himself to walk right past the woman, regardless of whether or not she was posted there to stop him. He took a deep breath and stepped toward the archway.

"Anyone ever tell you it's not proper to hide behind rosebushes?"

Edmund froze mid-step. He nearly fell in a heap on the grass when he heard her speak, as every single organ in his body seemed to stop functioning.

The woman turned, fixing her deep dark eyes on his face and smirking.

He'd never seen anything so lovely in his life. Not the sunset gleaming against the gemstones of the surface of the ocean, not the full moon's midnight filtering between the pale purple flowers of the gentle trees.

Not like the long, dark hair pulled away from her face so the shimmery waves tumbled and curled down her back and shoulders. Not like the soft fabric of her violet dress that tapered off into gossamer film floating at her knees. Not like the way her bare feet brushed against the grass like a whisper as she stepped toward him.

"Hello," she said.

It was all he could do to straighten up and bring his feet back together, nearly stumbling and pitching forward in the process.

It couldn't be her. It wasn't possible. She was lost to him forever, the odds of ever seeing her again in the negatives. She'd passed away long ago, happily married with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

And yet there she seemingly stood—a vision in violet, straight out of his wildest dreams. He must be hallucinating.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concern and amusement mingling in a wonderful sound that had his heart stuttering back to life.

_No, I'm losing my mind_, he thought. Instead he said aloud, "Yes." Unfortunately, it was more of a squeak than an affirmative statement.

"Good," she answered. "Aren't you enjoying yourself here?"

He cleared his throat. And he cleared it again, looking down at the grass and trying not to do anything ridiculous. Like grabbing her and pulling her into his arms. "I'm only here under obligation, I suppose. It's nice, but I'm not in the mood for it tonight. "

"That's unfortunate," she said, swinging her shoes back and forth. "Are you ill?"

He pointedly stared at her bare toes and stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets. "Not _ill,_ per se, but certainly not up for revelry like this."

"It's not her," he reminded himself. "It only looks like her."

"You call this revelry? I've seen funerals more lively than this," she said, and a chord struck in Edmund's soul. "Granted, the funeral was more for an enemy, hence the cause for celebration, but still."

The chord was plucked once again, and Edmund wiped his hand down his face.

"What's your name, miss?" he blurted out, unable to stomach it anymore. He had to cement that it _wasn't_ her. It _wasn't_ Velia.

"My name?" she echoed, closing the gap between them. "I thought you already knew."

And everything—his uvula, his spleen, his gallbladder, and even his kneecaps—just seemed to freeze. His blood stopped cold, and even his heart forgot to beat.

She leaned forward, into his space, and peered up at this lowered face. And then she smiled; she smiled _Velia's_ smile—one that enveloped her eyes and formed soft dimples under the corners of her lips. And the warmth of her expression thawed his entire existence back into movement.

"Velia," he murmured, lifting his hands to her face. The pads of his thumbs met her cheeks first, and then his fingertips and palms, and then he was cupping her face and pulling her closer. "I'm _not_ dreaming or hallucinating or losing my mind."

She dropped her shoes to hold onto both his wrists. "Well, considering the fact that would mean my entire existence is dependent on your sanity, I should hope not."

And because it was such an _utterly_ Velia type of thing to say, he couldn't help himself. That was all he needed to hear. He dipped his head and pressed his lips against hers. He barely registered her throwing her arms around his neck as every part of her consumed his senses—the fireworks attacking the back of his eyelids, the sweet taste of her lips, the contradicting feel of her firm softness in his arms and against his body, the smell of her hair and skin, and her sigh of relief. Slowly, irrevocably, the center of his world shifted just a little bit more. It had moved long ago, but it never quite made it to the correct notch. It wasn't until that night that it finally slid into place. The insane heat she emanated welded it and mended the heart he hadn't even realized was broken.

"Oh, whoops—"

"Wait!"

"_Velia?!"_

The pair reluctantly pulled apart to turn and face Peter, Susan, and Lucy—all three of them looking thoroughly nonplussed.

"Did someone spike the punch?" choked out Peter. "I'm sure I'm hallucinating."

Velia grinned, keeping one arm firmly around Edmund's neck while the other expertly pried his tangled fingers from her hair. He kissed her once more before finally lowering her back to the ground to greet his family.

Needless to say, the other three converged to greet their long-lost friend. Edmund, however, flat-out refused to release her, which resulted in an awkward three-way embrace, another hug that earned Edmund an elbow to the throat, and a huge, spinning bear hug that had Edmund stumbling around in a circle. Immediately after came the demands of an explanation, which was easily and quickly supplied.

Three days after their disappearance and upon seeing the lamp post, Velia had called off the search knowing that they must have returned to England—much like how Aslan had explained. The interesting part, however, came after she'd left. She had absentmindedly traveled right back to the Stone Table, sick with sadness at their untimely and unexpected departure. It was there that she found Aslan waiting for her.

He had told her of how Narnia had been inhabited by magical creatures and talking animals—beings that could not leave Narnia because of the magic flowing through their veins. Humans eventually stumbled in through hidden portals, managing to adapt tot their new environments and becoming true residents. They became the Calormens, Archenlanders, Telmarines, and Vascerans. Because of her true human descent, she would be able to travel back to earth through one of the portals, but she was hindered by the magical gift from the fire spirits. The Lion went on to explain that the only way for her to follow the Pevensies and return to the world in which she truly belonged was for her to give up her powers. Of course, she readily relinquished them. He warned her, though, of the strange passage of time between worlds.

Thus was why she had been deposited some thirteen years _after_ the Pevensies arried even though only a few weeks' time had passed for her. She had tripped and fallen through a broken roof of a hospital where they diagnosed her with amnesia when she couldn't answer what year it was, whom was the reigning monarch, and when she screamed in terror when a metal box began to tell her about a speech made by a leader of a country named France. A year's time found her an acclimated citizen of England and staring at a fancy sign on a stand that announced to the guests of a certain hotel that the garden would be closed off for the hours between seven and ten o'clock in the evening, due to a charity event hosted by one Miss Susan Pevensie.

"Blimey, Velia," breathed Peter, stunned by the onslaught of information on top of the fact that _she was actually there_.

"Ho-How are you?" asked Susan, eyes wide as she gripped Velia's hand—the one to which Edmund wasn't permanently attached, of course. "Where are you living. How've you been getting along in the world?"

"I'm all right, Susan," said Velia, grinning. "I'm living in a flat nearby with a nurse I work with at the hospital I crash-landed through." She looked at Edmund and squeezed his hand, relishing the way he seemingly curled around her protectively. "And I'm faring quite well in the world now, thanks."

Lucy grinned knowingly and began to tug Peter and Susan back toward the party. "Well, if you're feeling well, you should join us in the garden—expand your networks and whatnot."

Velia rolled her eyes and smirked. "Yes, because the last time we spoke, I was just as eager to socialize."

"No, no," said Lucy. "We haven't seen you in thirteen years. You are staying _here_ until we can take you home and catch up properly."

Peter's smirk meant he'd caught on to Lucy's train of thought. "Ah, well then, you two can wait out here, I suppose. Enjoy yourselves and meet us when the party's over, eh?"

Susan glared at her two siblings as they towed her back to her party. "Why aren't they coming with us?"

"_Because_, Susan," insisted Lucy pointedly, her voice fading as they disappeared behind the hedges.

Velia grinned and leaned her head against Edmund's shoulder. "Subtle."

"Like clubs to your face, they are."

"Would you like to dance?"

Edmund turned to her, slightly affronted and a bit shocked at her non-sequitur. "Thought I was supposed to be the one asking that type of question, miss."

She grinned. "You were taking too long."

In response, he grabbed her hand, raised it over her head to spin her twice, and then pulled her into a slow waltz.

"So," he began casually, smiling down at her brightly. "_Velia_, is it? Funny name, wouldn't you say?"

"I prefer _unique_," she replied snootily.

He shrugged. "Just as funny as _Edmund_, I think."

She pulled her head back to study the silly smile on his face. "Funny or not, _Edmund_, it's enchanting to meet you."

He grinned, wide and ecstatic. "Absolutely magical."

Then he sent a meaningful, emotion-drowned _thank you_ to the Great Lion and bent to kiss Velia again.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
